


To Be at Peace

by itsfnickingawesomeness, Quarra



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (kinda), Demon Bucky, Demon Bucky Barnes, Demon Deals, Horns, M/M, Mother Hen Steve Rogers, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-TWS, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural - Freeform, based on a piece of art, but an angry mother hen, demon!Bucky, lmao aou and cw didn't happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-07 04:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11051454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsfnickingawesomeness/pseuds/itsfnickingawesomeness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarra/pseuds/Quarra
Summary: “James Barnes, how much do you love your friend?”“More than anything. He’s my best friend, and I just wanna protect him and help him.”“Very well. Since you are young, I will give you a reprieve. Your friend Steve will have good luck, good health, and much strength- though these may not all be apparent just yet. As for my payment… that, too, will not yet occur, not until you are grown and have found peace, in which case it will be taken from you, twisting you, until you find what you seek most.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Done for the 2017 Cap Reverse Big Bang! Many, many thanks to quarra for creating such a beautiful piece of artwork (as seen in chapter 4), and as always all of my love to my beautiful beta thekvengers!

           

Being alone was something the Asset was used to. Alone in cryogenic storage, alone in the isolation cells, alone on missions. Bucky, however…. Bucky Barnes, whoever he was, _hated_ being alone. And now not only was Bucky alone in every sense of the word, but he didn’t even have memories to keep him company.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. He remembered everything from the falling helicarrier- the pain, the screaming, the dropped shield, the _words_. And after having visited the museum, flashes and sound bites kept appearing in his head, leaving too quickly for him to understand anything except frustration and a feeling of deep, tearing grief. Nights were the worst times; his dreams left him unsettled at best, terrified and screaming at worst. He took to sleeping for only an hour or two at a time, to keep watch against both enemies and his own mind.

At first Bucky had _tried_ to remember, tried to drag the memories out from his catastrophe of a brain, but the forced attempts only ever resulted in him throwing up and shaking on the floor, his head throbbing as his brain tried to protect itself. He gave up after only three days, because surely this added hell wasn’t worth memories of a life he could never have again. So Bucky focused instead on figuring out what it meant to no longer be on a leash.

Days three through eleven were spent with violent vomiting and aftershocks of withdrawal from Hydra’s drug cocktails, and relearning that he had to eat and drink and exercise. Trial and error was a daily activity- what foods made him throw up, what foods made his brain hurt with repressed memories, what exercises didn’t make his bones feel like they were trying to break through his skin. Once he could finally stand up for long enough to shower and eat, after he began to maybe feel less like a machine and more _organic,_ Bucky knew he had to continue to try to remember, not only for any information he had against Hydra (if he ever had someone to give it to), but to remember more of himself. Who he was. To try and be that human named Bucky again.

Shaking his head sharply at that thought, Bucky rose from his mattress that morning, beginning to do his daily calisthenics and stretching. It had been almost a month since Hydra and Shield fell, and he had a routine now, one that calmed him to rely on. He’d wake up, exercise, venture out a block or two and secure the area, return to the apartment, and try to think and remember himself until he fell into fitful sleep. It was easier this way; it felt like he still had mission directives, they were just coming from himself now. He never ventured far, never more than a few blocks, but took a new route each day, made a wider circle around his apartment. The more he saw of people, the more he sensed that he was missing something, the more he felt like he was wrong and out of place. So he worked on it- first by observing, then listening, and then practicing, in very small amounts. It was strange, learning to be human again.

One of the first sensations he’d learned to recognize- or, at least, respond to- was the throbbing pain coming from his entire left side and shoulder. The arm was never meant to go so long without maintenance and numbing steroids, and the heavy weight combined with its shoddy attachments made it tug viciously on every bone, ligament, and muscle in his torso. It was enough to make him grit his teeth every time he moved, and he ended up doing most things one-handed, keeping the metal arm straight by his side. The next emotion he remembered was white-hot frustration, since doing everything one handed was much more difficult than he imagined. Perhaps he had been left-handed in his past life.

But God, the _arm_. Something was wrong with it, something was malfunctioning. It kept making odd noises and spastic jerks; Bucky couldn’t control it correctly anymore. But he didn’t have any idea how to fix it, and he didn’t fancy tearing it out just to bleed to death, after all he’d been through. So on it would stay, until he figured out a plan, and hopefully nothing in his chest or back would rip beyond repair. Or explode.

Finishing his last set of one-armed push-ups he swung back into a sitting position, legs crossed in front of him. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the sharp stab of pain in his left one, and then immediately swayed as intense dizziness hit him. Groaning, Bucky put his head in his hand, not used to the sensation. It felt like… like he did after sustaining a large wound that spilled more than three pints of his own blood. But he wasn’t bleeding, he had just slept, and he had regular food access. So why? It took long enough to pass that even Bucky could tell something was not working correctly- perhaps Hydra had left chemicals in his arm to release into his blood and poison him, or something. That would be very bad indeed.

Like usual, he didn’t have any answers or anyone to go to, so Bucky simply got up with a sigh to really start his day. Upon standing the dizziness returned, along with a tremor in his knees, and he hissed at himself, frustrated and angry and confused and the tiniest bit afraid of what was happening. Weapons didn’t get sick or tired, just broken. Maybe he was broken beyond repair.

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered to himself, decidedly grabbing his backpack of notebooks and cash and heading out the door. He wasn’t going to let some goddamned vertigo keep him from his shaky sense of normalcy, so he marched out the door and down the steps of the apartment building, straight to the center of town. Going into town was always an adventure, since he never knew what sights or sounds could trigger an Episode. These were filled with sights, sounds, and even smells of life Before.

The first one had terrified him so much that he hadn’t gone outside for almost three days afterwards. It was only two weeks after Hydra had fallen when Bucky had finally ventured outside to eat more than the shitty protein bars he had in his pack. All had gone well for the first five or so blocks, until he had passed by a carpenter’s shop. The sound of wood being stacked had made Bucky’s head turn automatically, the sound more familiar than it should have been. Bucky had watched the carpenter haul stacks of wooden planks from a truck into his workshop, before suddenly his mind hadn’t been in Bucharest, it had been back in Western European woods, seventy years ago.

 

_The Howling Commandoes all sat around the fire, drinking the piss-poor excuse for coffee they were given and shooting the shit. Dugan was trying to convince Morita that he had once had sex inside the tiger cage of the circus in which he had worked, while Monty, Dernier, and Gabe were engaged in a game of cards, though they were cursing more than they were actually playing. Steve and Bucky sat across the fire from them, Bucky telling a story that Steve sketched out on his drawing pad. The night was tranquil, all the men worn out and empty from the third day in a row of marching they’d done. They were on the way to another Hydra base, this one deep in the French countryside._

_Bucky fell silent, his story finished, just watching Steve doodle and listening to the Commandos jeer and taunt each other over the soft sounds of nature. All in all it was one of the nicest nights they’d had so far in the world, and he committed then and there to his memory._

_Anyone watching could have seen the tiny, barely there smile on Bucky’s face, his soft and shining eyes, and the way his body was angled towards Steve. They would have seen, once Steve looked up, the same look on his face, and seen the two sling arms around each other and ruffle the other’s hair, closer than brothers._

 

The memory- for Bucky had been sure that’s what it was, sepia toned and tinged with nostalgic emotions he didn’t remember feeling- had sent Bucky reeling, physically and mentally. The carpenter had looked at him like he was crazy, but Bucky barely saw him, memories and pictures of the war bombarding his mind in rapid succession. Stumbling over to the closest brick wall, Bucky had sunk to the ground, eyes unfocused as new information came pouring in. It had felt like an old stair breaking, a noose rope snapping, or a shattered wall finally crumbling- every sense was overloaded with just these memories. He could remember the SSR, the Commandoes, Carter (god, how he had hated and respected her), Steve’s ridiculous stunts, camping up in a tree for days at a time waiting for a shot, Hydra, Azzano, _Zola-_

A broken, pained sound had broken him out of his thoughts, and it had taken him a minute to realize it was from him. He had been panting like he had just run a marathon, passerby had been staring at him, and he had felt like he was going to throw up- so he ran. Bucky had run back to his warehouse at the edge of the city, jumping across roofs and fire escapes to avoid anyone following him, and locked the door behind him. His breathing had been ragged, and he had dug his fingernails into his leg, body trying to cry and throw up and laugh warmly all at the same time. The joy of having some memories back, the pain over his dead friends and even _more_ proof that what he had done to Steve on the hellicarrier was unforgiveable, the terror of realizing he had been Zola’s pet for even longer than he had thought…. It had been overwhelming in every way, and he had stayed curled against the door all night long.

The same pattern continued on like that, every other day something new triggering a memory. Bucky didn’t know if it was just due to the triggers, or if the weeks with food and no new brain damage had strengthened something enough to begin healing. The effects varied, and now he was always hesitant to go into a new place, or eat new foods in public, because he never knew what his reaction would be; it was a struggle to leave his apartment, and now he had regressed to spending more time inside than out. Memories of Before would leave him sobbing for what he had lost, while memories of the Soldier would leave him retching and gasping. It wasn’t that he cared if people thought he was nuts, because by all means he probably was, but it was just one more thing that would make it difficult to maintain a low profile. If Bucky was found he wasn’t sure he could fight off a whole platoon of Hydra goons, especially with how much weaker and disoriented he was getting each and every day. So instead he tried new things in the safety of his home, or ducked into an empty building or alleyway if something hit him while he was out and about.

Taking a bite out of an apple instead of his usual plums caused a tidal wave of memories, starting with his mom’s homemade apple pie and spreading from there, like an out of control vine. His younger sisters, his deadbeat dad, his mother; _God_ , how could he forget Winifred-call-me-Freddie, his own mom? Bucky remembered summers on the boardwalk, late nights playing dolls with Eloise, teaching Becca how to dance. Luckily he had already brought his groceries back into his warehouse, because he fell to his knees and cried; his whole family was most likely dead now, it had been an entire century. He sobbed until he ran out of tears and couldn’t breathe, and curled up weakly on his mattress, for the first time fully cementing in his mind the wish that he could go back in time.

Seeing the butcher at the marketplace chopping up the fresh cuts of meat sent his mind straight back into memories of the Solider, filled with blood and gunpowder. He remembered faces, names, locations, guns and bombs and knifes. This lead to the violence that had been enacted upon him in turn, which he had half a mind to say that he deserved. Electrocutions, beatings, whips, cutting him open for both fun and repairs, testing his limits, training him to endure pain. Phantom pains buzzed through his entire body and Bucky doubled up right there on the street and threw up his breakfast, earning disgusted looks from passerby. Shaking, still hunched over protectively, Bucky bit down on a sob, both at his remembered pain and for all of the people that he’d wronged so horribly.

The smell of iodine from a pharmacy he passed brought back memories of a small, thin, blonde woman named Sarah, and an equally small, thin, and blonde Steve Rogers. Bucky remembered evenings and whole weekends at their house, playing soldiers on the worn wooden floors, or curling up for warmth on the couch cushions in the drafty living room. There were flashes of meager but warm meals, a lilting Irish voice singing songs, hushed whispers shared around a sickbed, comic books and wooden toy cars and blanket forts. This Episode sent him crashing into an alleyway, where he stayed propped up against the wall, panting harshly with tears streaming silently his cheeks. These had been the most intense, bright, and realistic memories so far, and he felt like he had been hit by a train. There was joy in reliving these memories, but it was combined with bittersweet nostalgia and the crushing, burning guilt of having tried so hard to destroy something he once worshipped.

That night he came home, exhausted beyond words yet bizarrely content, and slumped to the ground, only half on the mattress. Bucky thought aimlessly, revisiting some of the nicer memories he’d recovered over the last week, idly wondering what else he would remember, and quietly wishing that all of this madness would end. After an Episode he usually had to spend the next half a day recovering, and it would be a day or two before he could trust himself go back outside, meaning he usually only had three days between most of the memories. But, maybe due to these “memory attacks”, he seemed to be always tired now, a bone deep fatigue and chill that he couldn’t seem to shake, and that also discouraged him from venturing outside more often. It drove him insane, not knowing why it happened or how to fix it. He could almost long for the mix of drugs and artificial chemicals Hydra had used to pump him full of, since they allowed him to ignore inconvenient things like this.

His thoughts were interrupted when suddenly his arm made a spastic jerk, and Bucky actually yelped with the pain of it. Gritting his teeth, he glared down at it, willing it to just stop _fucking spazzing_. But then, he could only stare with wide eyes as two plates above his elbow separated slightly, and a thick band of gold slid out from within and wrapped around his bicep to form a ring over the metal, accompanied by wisps of black smoke. His arm shuddered, a grating noise emitting from it, and two more golden bands appeared in the same fashion to wrap around his forearm. “Well… that’s new,” Bucky said faintly, poking the gold bands. They seemed perfectly solid, clinking when he tapped them with a fingernail. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, his arm suddenly changing like that, and so he spent the night staring at it, tentatively stroking the golden bands and praying childishly that this was a good sign rather than the ominous one that he could feel in his gut.

The next two days Bucky stayed inside, just waiting for his arm to freak out again. He made do with the food he already had in his room, but was starting to run low. Since the original three bands, two more had appeared, one that wrapped twice around the palm of his hand and one that wrapped around his bicep at an angle, just an inch or two above the first one, overlapping it a bit. Each time the arm shuddered and jerked, emitting awful metal-on-metal grating noises and putting Bucky’s teeth on edge, the arm feeling like bones were pressing through skin. There didn’t seem to be a schedule to this, as now the bands had appeared at all times during the day, and they all looked slightly different. Bucky didn’t have the first clue what to do, so there he sat on the floor, mind floating away for a bit.

The third day, he woke up from an accidental sleep and realized that he had no food left. Gritting his teeth, Bucky forced himself off the floor of the ramshackle warehouse loft, now physically holding the arm steady with his flesh arm. He was sweating profusely, twitching occasionally, and every sense seemed to be almost painfully sharp. As his mind swirled, filled with pain signals that he had been ignoring for seventy years and the usual disjointed pictures from the past, he stumbled into the wall, hissing out a pained breath. Fuck, he was specifically making sure that he was eating and sleeping enough, he had learned how much sleep and food was required, was doing so well on acting like a human rather than a weapon- why was he getting worse? Most likely it had something to do with the arm. It was almost pitiful, how far he’d come: brother, to soldier, to the Fist of Hydra, and now a man who could barely stand up and walk straight. Just when he’d thought he could somehow come back to himself and _be_ someone again, something else had to be taken from him.

Walking unsteadily outside, he set off to the market, wanting to just get his shopping done and get back home before he did something awful like collapsing. Afterwards, three blocks from the bus stop, about halfway back to his abandoned loft, Bucky made the mistake of looking into an alleyway as he passed it. He froze, the sight of the beggar woman hunched against the brick wall sending a chill through him. He crept a step closer, not sure if he was wary because he remembered the woman from his time in the Red Room or if it was another memory from his life beforehand, not really wanting to go through the ordeal of remembering more of the Winter Soldier today. “Excuse me, ma'am?” he asked in soft Romanian, the sound causing the woman to glance up at him with a scowl. He saw that she had a dark green shawl, or maybe a scarf, wrapped around her, and as soon as he saw that he took a hasty step back.

A green shawl... another woman in the past... but who? Bucky stepped out of the alleyway and walked quickly to the next one over, wanting to hide in case these memories caused another Episode. Dropping his bags and hunkering down against the wall not unlike the old woman had been doing, he wrapped his arms around his head, already feeling a headache come on. “Do your worst,” he muttered, though his heart rate was picking up quickly.

 

 _Bucky ran through the streets of Brooklyn, breath panting harshly out from his mouth as he dodged passerby. Stevie was sick, real bad this time, and Ms. Rogers didn't look as forcefully cheerful as she usually did. Bucky could read past her, see the hard lines etched into her face, the shakiness in her fingers: Stevie might not make it through this one. So Bucky had run out of their tiny apartment, on the hunt for God only knew what; something,_ anything _to help his best friend. They were only thirteen, but Bucky already couldn't imagine a life without that little blonde terror around._

_A strange sight flashed by in his periphery, making him stop and backtrack. A store stood there, a small squat thing on the corner of Fourth and Wallace, a building that Bucky had never seen before. He was pretty sure it hadn’t even been there this morning on his way over to visit Steve. Frowning, Bucky walked closer to the store, noting the strange paintings hung on the windows. Something about it drew him in, an allure he couldn't put a name to. He had no idea if this place would be able to help him or Steve, but it was worth a shot. Decidedly pushing his way in through the door, he called out, "Hello?"_

_Thirty seconds of silence followed, and just as Bucky was about to sigh and return to the hunt for some sort of miracle, an older black woman came out from what must have been a back room, smiling slightly at Bucky. "Hello, James," she greeted, sounding quite pleasant. She was wearing loose black slacks- which was odd for a woman- and a silvery-gray top, her look completed by a long green scarf wrapped around her neck and shoulders._

_Bucky started. "H-how d’you know my name?"_

_The woman, waving her hand, responded, "It's not important. I know many things. Now, child, come here and tell me what brought you to my home. What are you in need of?"_

_Furrowing his brow, Bucky took another slight step back, unease weighing against the odd hope that this woman really could help him. “I… it’s my friend, Steve. He’s real sick, an’ he might not make it. Doctor said it’s real bad pneumonia, an’ his lung’s ‘boutta collapse.” Fear once more overshadowed any other misgivings he might have had, and he met the old woman’s eyes pleadingly. “Please, I gotta help him!”_

_A grin flickered over the woman’s face. “I see. Now, I can help your friend… for a price.” She settled down on the couch near the wall, crossing her legs at the ankle and watching Bucky with scrutiny._

_Bucky tilted his head. “I… I ain’t got too much money….” He said, trying not to sound too crestfallen. But the woman only chuckled, waving a heavily-bejewelled hand in the air._

_“I don’t want your money. I want something much more valuable, more powerful. James Barnes, how much do you love your friend?” The woman asked the question with a heavy air, seeming as if she was staring directly into Bucky’s soul._

_Swallowing, Bucky replied, “More than anything. He’s my best friend, and I just wanna protect him and help him.” Usually he would be embarrassed saying stuff like that about his friend, or Stevie would knock him one, but he thought it might help his case with the old lady._

_Seemingly, this was an answer she found more than acceptable. “Very well. Since you are young, I will give you a reprieve. Your friend Steve will have good luck, good health, and much strength- though these may not all be apparent just yet. As for my payment… that, too, will not yet occur, not until you are grown and have found peace, in which case it will be taken from you, twisting you, until you find what you seek most.”_

_At only thirteen, Bucky didn’t bother to understand most of what she was saying, only that Stevie would get better and Bucky didn’t have to pay anything, at least not yet. The old woman closed her eyes for a moment, her right hand grabbing her left wrist, and within a few seconds she was looking back at Bucky. “It is done. You may go now, child, but do not forget our deal.” Bucky nodded, thanked her, and ran home without further ado, hoping against hope that she was telling the truth. Sure enough, Steve had regained enough strength to sleep restfully, breathing sounding much more natural. But Bucky had already put the old woman out of his mind in favor of tending to his now-healing friend._

 

When Bucky resurfaced from the memory he was trembling and shaking, teeth digging into his bottom lip so hard that he tasted blood. “What the fuck…” was all he could whisper, hands coming up to tug on his hair. There weren’t many memories that followed, just short snippets of unbelievable shots he made with his rifle to protect Steve, the hair-brained schemes of Steve’s that actually worked, or instances where it was made painfully obvious just how much Steve had been enhanced.

But all of that had been the work of that doctor, right? Steve was the way he was because of his serum, and Bucky was what he was because of a different (less effective, less ethical) serum. For his memories to now try and tell him that everything was because of an old woman in Brooklyn, who demanded a mysterious “payment” from Bucky in order to keep Steve strong and healthy… it sounded like a bad ghost story.

But really… in his life, who the hell was he to say what was impossible or not? Steve had gotten a magic injection that had turned him into Superman, and was still running around at age 26 after being frozen solid for seven decades. Bucky was almost 100 years old and yet at the same time wasn’t a day over thirty, with a metal arm from the 40’s that was more advanced than anything today. Besides, all of this had just started when he was beginning to feel like a human again; was that his peace that was being taken away from his as payment?

Fuck, his whole _life_ sounded like a bad ghost story.

Bucky returned to his warehouse, stumbling with the now almost-constant dizziness and sensory overload, and under the weight of what he had just learned. He had had no reason to doubt his returning memories until now, and he didn’t think this one was any different- it was just as real sounding and perfected quality as all the rest. He had more than an inkling that this woman, whoever she had been, was responsible for whatever was happening to him now; it was too subtle and slow for anything Hydra could cook up. Not that he had the faintest clue of what this could be. So now, he was stuck with this: a body that was failing him, an arm that had a mind of its own, and a head that was regularly putting itself through a blender.

That night he only got restless bursts of sleep, so that when he woke up he felt more tired than when he went to bed. Or maybe that was his body getting even weaker; he couldn’t even tell anymore. He decided not to leave the house, because he was mentally exhausted from all of the memories he’d regained within the past week, he was physically drained because of whatever was happening to the arm and his body, and emotionally fatigued from the sheer amount of worry and fear he had chugging away inside of him.

Two more bands appeared while he was hiding away inside, these ones hurting more than the previous ones. They made Bucky break out in a sweat and close his mouth against a pained wine; it felt like someone was slowly shoving dull metal rods through skin and bone alike, and it stole most of Bucky’s remaining energy to stay upright and quiet. One band wrapped around the very middle of his forearm, a darker gold than the rest, and a thin one sat around the crease of his elbow, for all the world looking like a bangle. The ordeal left Bucky panting on the floor, and he wondered if eventually these transformations would use up so much energy that they killed him.

The next day Bucky managed to drag himself upright and eat a sandwich and some fruit, so he had at least something in him for fuel. He then spent the rest of the day lying on the bed, resting even if he couldn’t actually sleep. Flipping idly through a newspaper that had been shoved through the mail slot on his door, Bucky froze when he came to a picture, some sort of advertisement for a movie or TV show. It showed two kids, bundled up warmly, playing in the snow, halfway through building a snowman. His heart sped up and his brain whirled, sure signs of more memories to come, and he put his head in his hands, helplessly waiting for them to crash over him.

 

_Steve and Bucky giggled and ran about, their original goal of building a snowman forgotten in lieu of having a snowball fight. The snow was powdery and loose, so not the best for forming projectiles, but the two teens made do, cascading each other with the soft white powder. Eventually, Steve caught up to Bucky (because Bucky had slowed down enough for his asthmatic friend) and tackled him, sending the two rolling. The came to a stop, Steve sitting triumphantly on top of Bucky, refusing to get up until Bucky cried uncle._

_Making snow angels and catching their breath, all was peaceful until Steve sneezed. When Bucky bolted upright, Steve already looked resigned to his fate. “Yup, I think we’ve spent enough time out here,” Bucky declared, grabbing Steve’s hand and hauling him upright. Steve sighed but allowed himself to be dragged back inside Bucky’s house, only sniffling a few times. Once inside Bucky was quick to disrobe them both, gather comic books and blankets, and settle in front of the fire in the sitting room. “Come on, punk, I bet we can make up better stories than these writers!” Bucky called, and Steve couldn’t help but grin._

_The two sat in front of the fire for hours, thinking up increasingly ridiculous storylines and dialogue for Bucky’s comics, until they were taken over with helpless giggles. Eventually they just sat quietly, Steve’s head in Bucky’s lap and Bucky stroking his hair, and within minutes Steve was asleep, snoring softly. Looking down at the blonde head in his lap, Bucky felt a smile cross his face unbidden, as well as a wave of warmth and love so strong that it shocked him. Bucky’s hands stilled in their course through Steve’s hair as Bucky thought_ ‘Oh shit’.

 

Coming out of this memory was like leaving a warm bath- everything tingled in the best way, but it was still melancholy and bittersweet. It was only when more memories appeared- affectionate hugs that lasted too long, jealousy-tinged double dates, snapshots of the two of them stargazing (though Bucky always seemed to watch Steve more than the stars)- and the true weight of what Bucky had almost done to Steve that Bucky broke down. It wasn’t unlike when he had remembered his family- he sobbed into his hands, shoulders heaving and limbs shaking, mourning for what he lost and for what he never had. He had _loved_ Steve Rogers, with all his heart, and more than likely still did.

And yet, Bucky had almost _killed_ Steve, destroyed the one thing that Bucky Barnes had ever lived for. There was no coming back from that. Not to mention, who would want _him_ , an amnesiac, cyborg assassin with an arm that was changing on its own? No, Steve was better off without Bucky, in so many ways. Bucky only knew how to tarnish, he didn’t shine like Steve. He sniffed and wiped his eyes, choosing to wallow in self-pity instead of being productive right at this moment.

However, to make matters even worse, more bands began to appear on his arm that same night, just hours later. The metal limb emitted the worst noises he’d heard yet, and it twitched so much that he had to physically hold it down against the floor like it was a wild animal. The pain was so great that he groaned like a wounded animal, before turning and digging his teeth into the meat of his right arm. Three more bands slid slowly into place, bringing burning and stabbing pain with them as they settled in; one around his wrist, one around his bicep, and one that stretched almost horizontally from his bicep to his forearm. These ones were different, though. They had writing on them, runes from a language that Bucky had never even seen before; they unsettled him greatly

But the biggest problem was that now it seemed like everything in his body was going haywire. Bucky’s eyes strained and burned to see even the tiniest of cracks in the floor, his ears rang with noise and he felt like he could hear people talking on the street below, his clothes felt as abrasive as sandpaper on his skin, and he could feel his heart pounding through his chest, feel his breathing tear through his lungs. His head swam and every muscle in his body shook, and he could only gasp and curl in on himself, hoping that it would end, either this illness or his body.

After what felt like eternities, but must have been only minutes, Bucky could finally uncurl his body, shakily get to his knees, and throw up what little food he had in his system. Gasping for air once more, he swayed to his feet, vision blacking out for a moment as he leaned against the wall. He had no idea what was happening or what was wrong with him, he didn’t know a soul in the city, and somehow he knew that if he was going to die, he didn’t want it to be like this, along in a shithole loft in an abandoned warehouse.

He needed to go back to Steve, even just to see him once, just to tell him that he was sorry. _Then_ Bucky could die, knowing he’d tried to make amends, and that Steve was alright.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Getting back to the United States was Hell. Bucky managed to get through airport security with his arm by using some forged doctors’ notes- thank god for the more lax security of Romania. The plane ride itself was long and awful, but by using his stolen Hydra money he was able to secure himself a secluded seat in business class, so at least he didn’t have to deal with nosy passengers. By keeping on his sunglasses and hat, and putting earplugs in, he was able to give his over-worked senses a rest, and pretended to be asleep to conserve his energy.

Unfortunately, he had to deal with a frightening new change in the arm: tiny, claw-like metal thorns erupted out of the metal, causing a high-pitched squealing noise and an itching, pointed pain. He had hissed and grabbed at the arm, but nobody had noticed, so he had slunk off to the bathroom to have a small breakdown alone.

Customs once he was back in New York was more difficult, but with some careful maneuvering, more fake doctor’s notes, and one escape through an emergency exit, Bucky was finally able to run out onto the street outside. Maybe the asset’s skills were good for something after all. He hailed the first taxi he saw, handing the drive a chunk of cash to take him straight to Manhattan, to Avengers Tower. Once he had cash in hand the driver was more than happy to help, filling the silence with rhetorical questions and small talk.

Walking up to the Tower made Bucky less and less confident in his plan, but he’d come too far now, and his arm was starting to make weird noises again. Shaking his head, and immediately regretting it when he nearly blacked out, he marched himself up to the front door and to the unassuming desk in the lobby. The secretary looked shocked to see Bucky, which made sense considering how much like a hobo he looked, but Bucky gave her his best smile. “James Barnes here to see Steve Rogers?” he asked, and he’d barely finished his sentence before the elevator door was sliding open, Steve bursting out of it.

“Bucky!” he yelled, running up and stopping just feet from Bucky’s shivering form. “I… god, it’s good to see y- are you okay?” The joy in Steve’s expression faded to pure concern as he looked Bucky over. Of course, the idiot had come without his shield, and Bucky had remembered enough by now to know that it wasn’t surprising, unfortunately. But surely, his new friends…. Looking around, Bucky saw a flash of red hair around a corner, and an elevator at the other side of the lobby opened to reveal the winged man from before. At least Rogers had some smart people around him.

Call it placebo effect, but Bucky would swear that he was already feeling a bit better than when he walked out of that taxi. But no, he was definitely not alright. “I… I need help,” Bucky ground out, before his body underwent another violent shudder, the arm emitting a high-pitched grating noise as more tiny claws scratched around the edges. A high pitched ringing started in Bucky’s head, and he blinked spots from his eyes, swaying on the spot. His body must have been more overtaxed than he thought, because it felt like he was going to… The last thing Bucky saw was Steve frowning, mouth opening to say something, before the room tilted and black edged in on his vision.

Bucky woke up some indeterminate time later, groaning and holding his head. It still ached and spun, but not nearly as bad as before. He managed to sit up and put his elbows on his knees before he had to stop and take a breather, cursing lowly. This was awful- now he had resorted to _fainting_? He might have to stay here longer than planned to recover enough strength to go out on his own again, if he didn’t die first. Bucky’s mutterings must have been loud enough for Steve to hear, because in the next moment the blonde was standing in the doorway, regarding Bucky stiffly, nervously. “So… how you feelin’?” Steve asked after a tense thirty seconds of silence, neither one of them maintaining direct eye contact.

“Better, but still not great,” Bucky sighed, standing up to leave the tense atmosphere of the room. He stumbled forward a half step, and Steve came closer and reached out to steady him, only to freeze with his hands inches away from Bucky’s shoulders. It figured that Steve would be hesitant to get near him, a deadly assassin combined with a spiky and seemingly sentient arm.

Steve must have seen something twist in Bucky’s face, so he moved forward that small distance, warm hands firmly grasping Bucky’s shoulder, somehow already making the chill that had been dead-set in his bones for weeks now abate. “You missed it earlier, but of course I’ll help, Buck. Anything.” He gave a squeeze of Bucky’s shoulders before letting go, stepping back with a slight flush.

Swallowing down the lump caused by Steve’s earnestness and his scent and just _everything_ , Bucky nodded back, lips ticking up in a small smile. “Um… some food would be nice. And a hot shower?” he asked quietly, knowing that those two things- plus Steve’s presence- might be a good start to getting himself back on his feet. Steve grinned at him and rubbed his neck for a moment, before remembering he was doing something, then quickly turning and leading Bucky into the rest of the apartment.

Bucky couldn’t help but whistle. “Nice digs. Makes my place look like even more of a dump than it already is.” Steve laughed quietly at that, and Bucky purposefully ignored the fluttering of his heart in response. Steve showed him to the shower, left him clean clothes, and promised to have food waiting for Bucky when he got out. The shower was long and hot and probably the best thing Bucky had ever experienced, as long as he kept his eyes off of the disfigured arm. True to his word, Steve had several large boxes of takeout food to which Bucky took with gusto, him and Steve finishing off every pound of food between them. Bucky felt almost back to normal, like a real human being. Almost being the key word.

“So…” Bucky started, feeling more than seeing Steve’s gaze dart back to him. “I… just need a safe place for a bit. The…” he gestured to the arm, unsure what even to call it anymore, “is… acting strange.” Bucky saw Steve’s furrowed brow, his mouth already opening, so Bucky held his hand up, causing Steve to snap his mouth shut again. “I don’t know what’s happening, or why. But it’s not good.” Steve simply nodded, arms crossed. Afterwards, in the awkward silence, Bucky brought up something else that had been bothering him since he had arrived. “Do the others… know I’m here?” There was an unspoken ending- were they okay with Bucky being here?

Steve nodded, smiling tightly. “Yea, they know. Jarvis, the AI who runs the building,” Steve explained once seeing Bucky’s confused facial expression, “told us all once you hit the premises.” Bucky nodded- that explained why Steve had gotten down there so fast. “And… I told ‘em that I would handle this myself, so I don’t know if they’re okay with it, but it’s not really their place.”

Not that it would be a _problem_ per se, but he didn’t want to wake up with Iron Man or the Widow looming over his bed in the middle of the night. Bucky grit his teeth at that, not wanting to fight anyone so soon. “That’s not very reassuring.”

Steve set his jaw, looking steadily back at him. “It would help if I could get some answers from you. Where’ve you been? What’ve you been doing? Are you s- what do you remember?” Steve, now on a roll, was gesturing sharply with his hands. “Do you need a therapist? Cause, I don’t like them, but if you want one-”

Bucky interrupted him, voice cold, “Stop.” Steve didn’t quite meet his eye, shifting in his chair. “I don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t wanna talk about anything,” he added firmly, shooting a hard look at Steve. Bucky wasn’t sure how long that would last, but he really didn’t want to relive anything, and he didn’t want Steve asking him about every little thing that he _did_ remember. It would just make Bucky angry and Steve generally upset; it wasn’t worth it. This situation was only supposed to be temporary, anyway. The blonde nodded, mouth twisting, but didn’t ask anything else.

Bucky sighed, his headache returning. “Anyway… where’m I supposed to be stayin’? They got a cell that can hold me?” he asked, voice flat.

Furrowing his brow, looking hurt, Steve answered, “Of course we’re not gonna stick you in a cell, Buck! You aren’t dangerous.” Bucky snorted, wanting to argue that point, but knew that it was pointless to argue with Steve once he had his mind made up. Even if Bucky still didn’t trust himself, still felt dirty and bloodstained and wanted to argue for Steve’s safety. He wouldn’t get his way. “You’re staying in here, with me. That is… if you want to.” Steve looked much less confident by the end of his announcement, his sudden realization that Bucky needed a say in this too making him flush.

Tilting his head, Bucky considered it. He knew that just giving in and staying with Steve was sure to end up biting him in the ass somehow. Plus, with both the Winter Soldier in his brain and the recent changes to the arm, he didn’t know of he trusted himself to be around people, let alone Steve. However… if anyone could handle him during a flashback or an Episode, it would be Steve. And of course there was that tiny part of him that always cried out to be close to Steve. In the end, that part won. “Yea, I’ll take you up on that.” Bucky said, unable to resist smiling in response the resulting bright grin on Steve’s face.

Steve showed him to his room, an unremarkable but comfortable looking guest room, and then hung around awkwardly while Bucky dropped his single duffle bag in the middle of the floor. Bucky raised his eyebrow at Steve, and the blonde flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… so yea. My room’s just down the hall, so yell if you need anything. I’ll, uh… I’ll keep the door open. Just in case. Um… night, Buck.”

Taking pity on the brightly blushing Steve, Bucky gave him a soft smile, nodding. “Will do, Steve. Thanks….” They stood there for a moment, grinning like idiots, before Bucky pointed to the door with a fake scowl, causing Steve to roll his eyes and finally leave. Once actually in bed, however, Bucky tossed and turned, unable to sleep, the horrible fatigue from Bucharest seemingly gone. After a couple hours without success, Bucky got up to do a perimeter check, and was inordinately pleased to see that Steve had kept his promise, leaving his bedroom door open.

In the morning Steve showed Bucky around some of the Tower, pointing out the pool, the gym, the labs, and the recreational floors. It all took a little getting used to, and Bucky still didn’t feel like doing much, wanting to lock himself away in his room most of the time. Whenever he did leave he just drifted along behind Steve to the kitchen or the living room, not saying much. Steve always rambled when this happened, seemingly unsure of what to say or do with Bucky there, but he never really expected replies from him, which suited Bucky just fine. He still wasn’t sure what to feel now that he was near Steve again- sometimes he found himself smiling and warm as Steve babbled about misadventures with modern technology, other times Bucky didn’t leave his room for days at a time because he was still disgusted at what he had done. It varied depending on the day, and it made everything even more exhausting than it already was. Half the time he wanted to just leave without a trace and get away, but something Steve said or did always pulled him back in. It was maddening, love fighting against self-hatred.

His time at the Tower was uneventful, for the most part. It was obvious that no one there trusted him, and Bucky couldn’t blame them, and didn’t want to put them out. He kept his distance from the other Avengers, and they kept their distance from him; Steve was the only one he interacted with. Even that was done sparingly, both to decrease the amount of time Steve could spend staring at how much more disfigured Bucky was becoming and to decrease the amount of time Bucky had to spend around Steve, knowing how much he’d wanted him over the past seventy years, and how much he _definitely_ couldn’t have him now. Now that Steve had taken him in, was feeding him and bleeding awkward concern all over the place, Bucky hated that his heart so fully belonged to Steve. It was its own special kind of torture.

The strange sickness that had plagued Bucky in Bucharest, the over-worked senses, the weakness, and dizziness, and the unsteadiness all seemed to have left. Bucky couldn’t help but correlate that to his move to New York, to the Tower, to Steve. It sounded ridiculous, but now that Bucky was living with Steve, got to see and hear and smell him every day (but not touch, much to Bucky’s anguish), it seemed like all of those symptoms had gone out the window. If Bucky believed in magic- and he was believing more and more, nowadays, he would say that being around Steve was like a balm, and antidote for his ailing body. Not that he’d tell anybody that; it would make him sound even more insane and lovesick than usual.

New claws and thorns continued to grow and crawl across his arm every single fucking day, and thank god these only caused minor tremors and strains rather than the burning pain of the golden bands, because there seemed to be no end to them. Each day a new bunch appeared, and by the time Bucky had been at the Tower for two weeks the arm was starting to look like a hedgehog. Saying that in passing had made Steve laugh warmly, and Bucky’s insides turn themselves into knots, so he refrained from making any more jokes.

Another thing that was both good and bad about living with Steve was the fact that half the time, something he did or said triggered a new memory. Luckily Bucky could count on them being safe, as they were all from Before, but it was still disconcerting to have random snippets of events that happened eighty years ago play through his head. Bucky decided not to tell Steve, deciding it was easier to remember in silence than try to explain how it happened, or why sometimes Bucky needed to leave the room immediately before he burst into tears. But there was almost always one constant in those memories- how totally, irrevocably devoted he’d been to Steve Rogers. And it frightened Bucky, just how quickly he was falling back into that trap.

As the days went by, and the growth of the thorns seemed to slow down, Bucky didn’t _feel_ any better, emotionally. In fact, an intense frustration or irritation seemed to be building. He felt angry all the time, as if there was a physical, raging cluster of light and heat in his core, and any little thing set him off. A tiny claw on his arm ripped a hole in his shirt, and he had to go downstairs and beat on the punching bag for over an hour. One day he tripped and stubbed his toe on a table, and put his right fist through the wall. A night when he couldn’t figure out the remote, which was stupidly complex even for the future, caused him to send it flying through the TV and four inches into the wall behind it.

Steve never brought it up, never asked about it or scolded him for it, and that almost made it worse. Dealing with Steve was only making all of Bucky’s pent up emotions and rage worse, because Steve was the one constant that made sense to Bucky, and yet he wasn’t Bucky’s, not anymore. Steve always made time for him, sure, they ate meals and watched movies together in an uneasy peace. Every night Steve left his bedroom door open, a silent invitation in case Bucky needed it, but Bucky never took it. Steve never pushed for an explanation of what was happening, or asked Bucky questions that were _too_ probing or leading. He often asked after Bucky’s health, expressed concern about his changing arm, made countless offers to get someone to examine his arm, his body, his mind- all of which Bucky shut down firmly. Steve meant well, but he was relentless in his drive to do something concrete to help, and Bucky could see the exasperation brewing in the blonde. 

While Bucky was mostly thankful for this uneasy truce it also was like being dragged over coals. When they weren’t eating or Steve wasn’t rambling on to fill the silence, the two tip-toed around each other, all cautious and simple questions and easy answers. Bucky hoped that Steve was realizing that he wasn’t the same guy, but at the same time Bucky could see that Steve had changed, too. While the blonde looked more world-weary and beaten down than ever before, he also seemed older and wiser, exactly like someone who had seen too much but stuck around anyway would. It was just more reminders how good Steve was, and how much farther Bucky was falling every single day.

They were at the dinner table one night, a month in to Bucky’s stay, when another clawed bunch grated across his shoulder, causing Bucky to wince and rotate the arm, trying to alleviate the twinges of discomfort. Steve was watching curiously, not having been privy to too many of these instances before, and Bucky looked back down at his plate, poking at his food. “Does it hurt a lot?” Steve asked suddenly, still peering at Bucky.

Bucky froze, eyes still on his dinner. Steve was owed a few answers, he supposed; he’d helped Bucky a lot so far without asking much. After a moment he shrugged, saying, “A bit, but not as bad as the bands did.” Steve’s face fell a bit, and Bucky shrugged again, shooting him a weak smirk. “Hey, it’s basically nothing to me.”

Still not looking convinced, knowing Bucky’s facial expressions better than he did, Steve nodded, trying to look nonchalant while his shoulders were stiff as a board. “You know, Buck, we could always ask Tony or Bruce to look over you.” It was obvious that he had been trying to find a way to ask this again, as it had been a whole three days.

Frowning, Bucky shook his head. “No. I don’t want… I don’t want to be in a lab. Or having people poke at me.” He also didn’t want people seeing him like this, didn’t want more people exposed to whatever the fuck was happening to him.

“It’s not really a lab, more like a workshop,” Steve countered, not noticed Bucky’s tightening grip on his fork. “Plus, with all the robots and machines and Tony’s babbling, I think you’d be fine with-”

Banging his right fist on the table, Bucky exploded, “NO, Steve.” Steve’s eyes widened a bit, and Bucky focused on calming himself, noticing how heavily he was breathing. “I said no, Steve. No labs, no check-ups.”

There was silence for a moment, Bucky refusing eye contact, swirls of rage still going through him, combined with the guilt of yelling at Steve like that when he just wanted to help. Since the growing anger had started getting worse, Bucky had been able to keep his explosions of bad temper either to himself or inanimate objects, and Steve’s surprise at being shouted at was obvious. Gritting his teeth, Steve shot back, “I’m just trying to help, Buck. I wasn’t th- it’s been months and I’m sure you haven’t seen anyone, and I think you should. I want to make sure you’re okay!”

Sneering, Bucky said, “Sure, and _you’re_ the poster child for taking care of yourself.”

Steve’s nostrils flared. “We’re not talking about _me_. Why are you making things so difficult?”

“Because you think this is something that can just be _fixed_ , and you act like you understand what I’ve been through when you _don’t_.” It was a low blow, but Bucky was so steamed that he was about to do something stupid like put a knife through the table, or even Steve’s hand. He shoved away from the table, muttering, “I’m going to bed.” He pretended that he didn’t hear Steve gripping the table until it creaked, or the fact that when Bucky got up to patrol the apartment three hours later Steve had still kept his bedroom door open. That had made his throat and chest close up like there was a fist around them, and he quickly retreated back to his room to breathe.

The next day it was like the argument never happened, and though Bucky was still having trouble keeping his temper in check, he made more of an effort around Steve to be less combative and more pleasant. He didn’t know if it was working, but just seeing the knowing smiles on Steve’s face was more than worth it.

Bucky should have known better than to think that things were calming down, or that things had already been at their worse. After his shit storm of a life, you’d think that he’d learned his lesson by now. Five weeks after he came to the tower, three days after the last set of thorns had come, he woke up from a rare few hours of sleep to a blinding headache. The front of his head was pounding, throbbing, felt like someone was in there smashing neurons with a hammer. He hissed and put two hands to his forehead, pressing onto it like he could push back against the pressure in his skull.

He tried sitting up, moaning lowly when all it did was add a head rush to the hot pain. Keeping his right hand pressed to his temple, Bucky shuffled out of his room and into the kitchen, the bright lights of the hallway making him screw his eyes shut, unable to hold back a whimper. Steve was already in the kitchen, probably already having been on a run and eaten, and he looked up concernedly at Bucky’s entrance. “Buck- everything okay?”

Stifling the flare of unreasonable irritation at the stupid question, Bucky gingerly shook his head. “Headache, real bad. Feels like someone shoved your shield through it.” He slumped into the chair next to Steve at the island, gently letting his head rest on the cool marble. Suddenly, Steve hummed, reaching over and putting a hand to each of Bucky’s temple. Bucky froze, asking, “What are you doing?” It wasn’t like they had purposefully avoided physical contact- it was kind of impossible for two guys their size to avoid brushing against each other in the hall- but this was the first purposeful, prolonged contact they’d had. Bucky didn’t want to admit how wonderful Steve’s fingers felt on his skin.

Steve hesitated, knowing that discussing the past was a touchy subject. “You used to do this all the time for me,” he finally explained, starting to work his fingers in tiny circles over Bucky’s temples. It didn’t help the overall pain, but having extra pressure as well as something else to focus on made Bucky sigh in relief, going boneless in his chair with a heady rush of happiness. “I got headaches a lot ‘cause I needed glasses but we couldn’t afford them.”

Bucky chuckled tiredly, letting his eyes slide closed. “You were always squintin’, especially when you refused to stop just ‘cause the sun went down.” It made him feel like he was on painkillers, the way that things seemed to slide in and out of his mind, the usual guilt and apprehension and tension all just melting away.

Steve laughed, seemingly pleased that Bucky had regained his memory, and replied, “Yep, and you’d yell at me all the time, but you’d still sit down and give me-”

When Steve didn’t continue his sentence, and his fingers stopped moving, Bucky opened his eyes back up. “What?” he murmured, not liking the change in atmosphere.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Steve said unconvincingly. “Uh… did you always have these bumps here?” His fingers brushed two spots right above Bucky’s temples, and Bucky frowned, reaching up and brushing his fingertips over the area. Sure enough, two bumps, about the size of almonds, were sitting there underneath the skin.

Bucky swallowed thickly, ducking out of Steve’s reach as he stood up, headache now the least of his concerns. Those _definitely_ were new, and Bucky would bet bottom dollar that they had to do with the pain in his skull. “It’s probably nothing, right?” he asked, eyes darting up to Steve. The blonde didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway, biting his lips.

Bucky retreated to his room once more. By the end of the day- a day filled with constant head pain, which lead to constant tension and pain in his neck and shoulders- the lumps had grown enough to be visible past his hair, to be recognizable for what they were.

“Horns…” Bucky whispered in horror, tracing the tip of one with a flesh finger. “Fucking horns.” They were unbearably sinister, much more recognizable as something _not right not human not safe_. Terror crawled up his throat and lodged there, his heart beating double time. The arm was one thing, but to have changes done to his own, organic body… he wanted to scream, he wanted to punch something, he wanted to saw them and the arm off, he wanted to break down crying and just end it-

The horns kept getting bigger over the next three days, and Bucky left his room less and less. Steve always knocked on his door and called for him, but usually Bucky didn’t respond, ignoring the blonde’s angry huffs. Eventually Steve started threatening to break down the door, to call another team member in, to stop bringing in food; but he never did. However, in the afternoon of the third day, Steve apparently had had enough, and knocked on Bucky’s door hard enough that Bucky was surprised the door didn’t cave in. “Bucky, let me in. I want to help. I can’t do that if you shut me out.” His voice was firm, no nonsense.

Bucky scoffed, knowing that Steve couldn’t help him, no one could. “No.”

He could practically hear Steve fisting his hands in his hair. “What do you mean _no_? I swear to God, Bucky, let me in this second.”

Seething, Bucky kicked the wall. “I said no, Steve, _fuck_ why don’t you ever listen to me?” he hissed out.

“I’m getting real tired of you running away and hiding this shit, Buck. Open. The door.” Steve was practically growling now, and Bucky ignored the tiny shiver in his shoulders.

“You’re not gonna like it.” Bucky taunted, balling his hands into fists.

Steve snorted. “I don’t care, I just don’t like being kept in the dark. Let me fucking help you, whatever this is.”

Counting on the sick satisfaction of seeing Steve’s reaction to Bucky’s newest additions, Bucky opened up the door violently, challengingly. He could see Steve’s eyes widen when he saw the horns, but then Steve squared his jaw and said, “Were you ever gonna come out and talk to me about this?”

As much as most of Bucky fumed and wanted to physically kick Steve and slam the door, there was a tiny part of Bucky that always swooned and fawned over Steve’s commanding presence. _Ridiculous_. Bucky scowled at both Steve and himself and stomped past Steve into the living room, crossing his arms and waiting. Sure enough, Steve followed, and within thirty seconds was scolding Bucky.

“Come on, Bucky, we’re a team here. Anything that scares you scares me, too. I want to be there for you, but I can’t do that if you hide away from me.” Steve’s words were met with a stony silence, Bucky simply glaring at him. “I know this is… new, and frightening, but you and I, we can do anything together.”

Bucky could only blink in the face of Steve’s earnestness, finding it difficult to believe that it was just that easy. “You can’t be serious,” he said, derision and anger clear in his voice.

Steve’s arms were crossed tightly and his muscles bulged, and Bucky wasn’t sure how much longer Steve would go without yelling. Glaring, he said, “I mean it. I wanna help, so I gotta know what’s goin' on with you. You can’t just go runnin' off like that. I won’t let you.”

Mouth hanging open, Bucky felt irritation swell into true fury, and he threw his arms into the air as he shouted, “Bull _shit_!” Steve looked mutinous, but Bucky didn’t give him the opportunity to continue his rousing battle speech. “Shit, Steve, I mean… we don’t even know what’s happening to me! Whatever I… whatever I’m turnin' into, I could easily kill you. I mean, look at this thing!” Bucky gestured violently to the arm, which was now fully covered in golden bands and thorny spikes. He let out a strained laugh. “It’s even worse than before! I even got _fucking horns_.” 

Scowling, Steve yelled back. “Don’t you think you woulda done that already? It’s been over a _month_ and we’re both still here! You’re not dangerous to me, Bucky, now just fucking come here and let me-”

Taking a step back from Steve’s outstretched hands, Bucky snarled, “Don’t touch me.” He was doing his best to hide how hard he was shaking, both at the newest change and at Steve’s insistence that nothing was wrong. How could Steve still be okay with this, how could he take this in stride like Bucky wasn’t becoming some sort of fucking monster? Bucky wanted to claw his own skin off, rip his arm out and so what if his spine came with it.

Now frowning even harder, Steve took another stubborn step forward. “Buck, come on, we can help you, god damnit.” Nearly vibrating with panic and rage, Bucky grit his teeth, feeling like a volcano about to erupt. If Steve took one more _fucking_ step closer… Bucky hadn’t realized he’d squeezed his eyes shut until he heard, but didn’t see, Steve come closer and say, “This doesn’t change a thing, Bucky,” voice a bit calmer than before.

White hot fury that didn’t seem like his own blasted through him. It was easy for Steve to say that, he wasn’t the one who was changing into something inhuman, into something horrid and frightening. Steve couldn’t understand how Bucky was feeling, not about this, not about Steve, not about anything. His eyes springing open and his muscles tensing for a fight, Bucky spat, “How the _fuck_ could it not, Steve?” and took a swing at him, with the left arm. It wasn’t meant to a forceful one, just enough to get Steve to back off and give Bucky space. But Bucky was stronger than he expected, or perhaps angrier than he knew, and the hit sent Steve sprawling to the floor.

The shock of it was enough to completely stop Bucky’s anger, leaving only empty shock and raw guilt in its place. Bucky put his flesh hand to his mouth, letting out a shaky exhale. “Fuck. Steve. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” He choked on his own words as Steve sat up, digging the claw-like ends of the metal arm into his thigh. Steve’s facial expression was apologetic, of all things, but his jaw was already bruising, and there were deep gouges that were gushing blood, most likely from the thorns on the back of Bucky’s hand. “ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky whispered, blood running cold and lungs speeding towards hyperventilation. He had _sworn_ that he was done with violence, that he would never hurt Steve again, and here he was, a monster, like always.

Steve was already getting up, one hand on his jaw. “Bucky, it’s fine, I’m not hurt too bad. These’ll heal up within a few hours.” Bucky didn’t respond, backing up against the living room wall, shaking his head. God, he had _hurt_ Steve, made him bleed, the one thing he had promised he’d never do again. He didn’t deserve to be here, he didn’t deserve any of this. But Steve was still talking, still trying to calm Bucky down. “I’m sorry for pushing you, for getting too close. Just breathe with me, pal, and we can go-”

Bucky didn’t stay to hear the rest of the sentence, he was already bolting out the balcony doors, scaling the building, and running away through the city. He kept on running, until he was fully alone, once more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning guys, there is a moment near the end of the chapter where Bucky has some suicidal thoughts/plans. Be safe <3

Bucky ran until it was pitch black outside and even he was out of breath, enhanced body and all. He wasn't sure exactly where he was, but he had definitely left Manhattan, maybe even gone past the Bronx and towards upstate New York. He was currently sitting on top of a building, curled up against the ledge, trying to ignore the shudders wracking his body. His mind was on a constant loop of ‘ _I hurt Steve, I hurt Steve’_ , and Bucky was pretty sure that he was feeling the worst, physically speaking, that he had in almost a month. He knew better than to kid himself, and he was sure that Steve's mere proximity had been enough to lessen his pain and ease whatever he was going through. But he didn't think too hard on that, because it was just another excuse for Bucky to long for what he couldn't have.

The wind blew stronger, and Bucky wrapped his arms around himself, cursing himself for not grabbing a jacket, at least. He also distantly cursed himself for even caring about the cold, but he had never been a big fan of it anyway, and if he was going to try and be a human again then he got to complain like one. The arm ached again, like it had in the days right before the golden bands had started growing, and Bucky gave it a sour look. Overall, his situation was awful, and he could almost regret running away.

Unsure of where to go now that he had accomplished his only goal of “get far away”, Bucky sighed and stood up on shaky legs, using his arms to steady himself. Plodding to the edge of the roof, he peered down into the night, forcibly not thinking about how his already-insanely-good night vision had improved yet again, how every detail of the buildings below was as easily visible as if it were daytime. Spotting what looked like an under-construction apartment building at the end of the block, Bucky shimmied down the building he was on- a department store, apparently- and quickly broke into the other building. Finding the first room that didn’t have huge holes in the wall or tools everywhere, Bucky slumped against the wall, more exhausted than he had been in weeks. The irrational anger he had been feeling the last two weeks seemed to have vanished, leaving him empty. Sleep came quickly, but did not stay easily, and nightmares plagued him all night.

The next morning the ache in the arm had only increased, a dull sort of pounding that almost seemed to rattle the metal plates and the gold bands. While Bucky went to buy what cheap food he could from a convenience store, the pain steadily grew louder and louder, and by the time noon rolled around it was agony; Bucky was sweating, his teeth chattering, right hand gripping tightly around the arm as if he could hold it together himself. Nothing was actually moving in the arm, but it felt like someone had a bass speaker in it, rattling the inner mechanisms mercilessly.

Three sharp cracks sounded out in the empty room, and Bucky jumped, reflexively looking down at the arm. Sure enough, the metal plates gapped again, but instead of more golden bands coming out, strings of pearls and jewels threaded out from between the plates, coming to wrap around the arm. One was on the bicep, one on the forearm, and one close to the wrist; they glimmered innocently in the dusty sunlight. “Jesus…” Bucky whispered, hesitantly stroking one flesh finger over the strands. They felt perfectly real, though he admitted to himself that he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between real and fake jewels.

It made a strange effect- the shining golden bands all up and down the arm over the dark metal, metal claws and thorns sticking out everywhere, and now three ropes of pearls and gems on top of the rest. It was disorganized, but in a way slightly enchanting, glinting severely in the dimly lit room. Bucky found himself rotating the arm, examining it from different angles, watching the sun beams play across the different materials. Once he realized what he was doing, he shook his head roughly, letting the arm drop back down to his side. Next thing he knew he would start polishing the damn thing. Settling back against the wall and wrapping his right arm around his knees, Bucky leaned his head against the brick, sinking himself into memories to try and recover missing ones, time slipping away from him.

As the time away from Steve increased, not too much else changed for Bucky. Something kept him in New York, whispered to and convinced him that he needed to stay closer to Steve. Though he definitely wasn’t at full strength by far, he was still much better than the weak and fragile state he had been in Bucharest; Bucky had no desire to rehash that situation. And so he stayed, in a small city just outside the Bronx as he found out, wiling away his time by being anxious, both about being found and changing again. As was becoming normal for him, in the morning Bucky snuck out of the dilapidated apartment building- still strangely empty of all construction workers- to get his food for the day. He would then slip back into the apartment building and eat, before trying to fill in holes in his memories, or watching out the window with paranoia.

He wasn’t quite sure how he had avoided being found yet; he had thought that with Steve’s bullheadedness and Stark’s technology, they would’ve been here within twelve hours. But the hours ticked by and no one came rushing in to take him back, or put him down, and Bucky was left alone with his thoughts. It probably wasn’t the best thing to do, as his thoughts had proven to be less-than-productive at the best of times, self-sabotaging at worst, but it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. Bucky wanted- no, needed- some time alone to regroup, come up with a plan, think of… something. Anything.

It wasn’t really working. By the fourth day of his escape Bucky was feeling incredibly restless, having done nothing but sit, think, and eat small meals since he arrived. His feet and legs itched and his flesh arm twitched every once in a while, and he knew that he had to get out and run around somewhere to try and burn off some of this nervous energy. It meant a greater risk of being spotted, either by passerby or security cameras, but it was a risk he was willing to take to prevent clawing his own eyes out.

Bucky mostly kept to the rooftops, avoiding surveillance when he could, staying in the shadows when he needed to. Most people never look up, and it seemed like he’d picked a mostly industrial part of the city, so it wasn’t nearly as busy as Manhattan, or even Bucharest. The day was warm and sunny, and it felt so nice on Bucky’s skin that he was almost having a nice time. Of course, he should’ve know that he wasn’t allowed to have nice things, _ever_.

It started when he noticed a strange shimmering in the air on the next rooftop over. Tilting his head, Bucky peered at it, trying to determine its cause; it wasn’t hot enough outside to create heatwaves, and there were no vents blowing out hot air or chemicals from inside the building. Creeping closer to the edge of his roof, he saw that the shimmering air seemed to change shape, turning less amorphous and more pointed, wider with sections of varying height. Unable to deny his curiosity, and hoping he wouldn’t regret this, Bucky took a running jump, landing easily on the next roof.

Now he was only a few meters from the shimmering spot, and the closer it got, the more it seemed to resemble… humanoid shapes? The haze seemed to form the shape of four people of different heights standing next to each other. Shaking his head, Bucky peered closer, wondering what the hell was going on. Suddenly, the haze was gone, solidifying into four, very solid looking… things.

Bucky was unable to hold back a yelp of fright, both at the sudden appearance of the figures and at their appearances. Their proportions weren’t quite right, with overlong arms, stumpy legs, and broad shoulders. Their edges were blurred, slightly transparent, as if they weren’t all the way formed. The shortest one had skin of a deep blue, while the other three had varying shades of red skin. All but the tallest had horns not unlike Bucky’s, and the second tallest one had golden bands on his right arm that were similar to the ones on the metal arm. Bucky thought that he could even see a tail or two coming from behind the group. The tallest one had black wisps of smoke coming off of it, and all four of them had bright, unnaturally metallic eye colors, and eight eyes were fixed directly on Bucky.

Swallowing with difficulty, Bucky stammered, “W-who… or what are you?” They were unlike anything Bucky had ever seen before, and they set off all of his animal instincts, which were screaming _wrong_ , and _run away_.

The blue one said, with a voice like rattling nails, “You and we are closer than you think.” The tallest one added, “The ones who have been cheated,” with a voice like sandpaper over concrete.

“I don’t know what that means,” Bucky insisted, taking a step back, heart beating right out of his chest. None of that sounded good, especially the part about them being closer than he thought. It sounded like something Bucky wouldn’t want to think about, even if he did know about it.

The second in line replied, “You will, soon enough. Sooner than you think.” This one’s voice sounded like the wind, quiet and raspy, but dangerous. The second tallest warned, “There are resemblances that will only increase, if you do not listen to what you were told.” This one sounded like he had drank acid and burned away his throat.

Breathing harshly, Bucky repeated, dumbly, “I don’t know what any of that means. I’m not like you, I never will be.” Even as he said it, Bucky felt the doubt crawling through him- how could he possibly know what would and wouldn’t happen to him? These things very well could have all the answers, or at least more than Bucky had (which was almost zero).

The tallest one retorted, “You may think that now. So did we all,” looking… exasperated? Next the second one piped up, saying, “Try though you may, you cannot escape this path, not even by blood or bone.”

Bucky was now backing up, until he hit the opposite ledge of the roof. But no matter how much he tried to back up, the creatures never seemed to get further away, only keep the exact same distance. “What do you want from me?” he cried, bracing himself to make a run for it. He was torn between his desire to escape the ludicrous situation, and try to find out _anything_ about what this was. What _he_ was.

Emitting what must have been an abused chuckle, the blue one responded, “Want? We do not want. Only observe, and wait.” The second tallest one then said, “We will watch you, James Barnes, until it is time.”

With that they faded away, until even the shimmering haze from earlier had gone with them. “Wait,” Bucky cried out, a desperate need for information now outweighing his fear, “come back! Please, I have so many questions!” But nothing happened, no one responded, and now he was drawing the attention of nosy strangers walking by.

Bucky booked it back to his apartment building, mind whirling with the things he had learned. Or, well, been told- something told him that even in his pathetic state, he shouldn’t resort to talking to strange, floating creatures he met on a rooftop. Maybe it had all been just another change he was slammed with, or maybe his mind was finally cracking for good and making him hallucinate other monsters to make him feel less lonely. But nothing about the meeting had felt insubstantial or fake, and there had been no heat or physical changes associated with it like there usually was. Which left Bucky with the only option of those things being real.

Bucky slumped onto the floor, shifting to lie on his back and stare at the stained ceiling. They had never said what they were, though they had been adamant about Bucky being one of them. Sure, a couple of them had horns, and one of them had an arm with golden bands and jewels on it, but other than that they looked nothing like Bucky. They had looked more like ghosts than anything, which didn’t lend them any credibility, but the confidence with which they had spoken, and the eerie way that they knew everything about him… it made Bucky incredibly nervous.

Would he someday look like them? Would he fade away into almost nothing, unseen by most humans, misshapen and no longer even resembling a human being? The thought terrified him, and suddenly he could only think of Steve, and how he would never see him again, and Steve would never know what happened to him. Bucky grew angry at himself for those thoughts, viciously rerouting his train of thought; he was the one who had left Steve, and it was better this way. Steve would never have to see him again, that was the whole point. It didn’t matter if-

Suddenly, Bucky felt like someone had dipped the mutated arm into molten metal- a slow, spreading, burning sensation that started at his shoulder and worked its way down to the fingertips. Biting his lips to keep from groaning aloud in pain, he held the arm away from his body (just in case it actually was hot), refusing to look at it. The searing pain continued to bloom up and down the arm, and Bucky definitely tasted blood as he bit through his lip, a strangled moan escaping him. An hour later, as he was hyperventilating and beginning to contemplate- not for the first time- just ripping the arm off, the agony started to abate, receding first from the fingertips and then retreating, _slowly_ , back up the arm.

Once the heat had reached a bearable level, Bucky risked a glance over at the twisted metal, and immediately regretted it. He had hoped over the past two months that maybe some of the ridiculous golden bands or thorns would cover the red star on the arm, but it still had remained clear as day on his arm. He could have sobbed as he saw the star brighten, until it was glowing like a candle in the night. It had always been hideous to him- the color was lurid and awful, the color of blood from a head wound, and the whole thing was a symbol of who he belonged to, Hydra and Russia and all of their evil people. Bucky always considered it a brand, a label as if to say “This is _our_ weapon.” But to see it like this, lit up with a glowing haze, steaming ever so slightly, and seeming that much bigger on his arm- for some reason it seemed one of the worst changes yet.

Letting out a low, animalistic moan, Bucky stood up and ground his heels into his eyes, praying once again that this was all a nightmare, that he’d wake up back in Bucharest in his shit-hole loft. Even if he had been alone, it was better than this hell, where he was alone but also _not human anymore_. It all just… it wasn’t fair! Bucky had been doing well- he had been eating, sleeping (well, as much as he could), remembering, and hadn’t hurt a single person. He had managed to mostly overcome seventy years of torture, only to be faced with the next horror. God, could he ever catch a fucking break?

Almost without knowing it, Bucky turned and shoved the metal fist through the brick beside him, the mortar giving way easily under the force. Blinking at the loud crashes of falling masonry, Bucky began to shake, and he sunk down to his knees, shoulders hunched and head down. Perhaps he had done something awful in his previous life to have earned his hardships. Or maybe, he truly had done too much evil as the Winter Solider, and he was never allowed to be happy again. He was more inclined to believe the second option, as that was something he often thought to himself.

But what was the point? What was the point of trying to live out this awful, uncertain, unnatural life? He had tried to regain his humanity, and he lost that. He had tried to get back his Steve, but he had pushed him away. Was his life worth anything anymore? Or was it all just some big cosmic joke? Anything he did just bit him in the ass, just made things worse. Even when he _didn’t_ do anything Fate had to come and screw with him. What was the _fucking point_?

Looking at the arm just made him angrier, made him more desperate and anguished. This awful reminder of all that he had been through, now made even worse by who the fuck knew, the somewhat aesthetically appealing, if menacing, silver now marred and hidden by sinister additions. Why the hell did the whole world have a vendetta against Bucky Barnes? It was enough to make hi want to break down, his chest tight as air squeezed through them too quickly, every muscles tenses and trembling, teeth grit together as he tried to control himself.

He had the sudden, violent urge to cut off the arm, saw and break and pull with all of his might until the damned thing was off. It might kill him, but at this point he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He had had enough of living live as some second-rate creature, as something not quite human, and Bucky was through with it. He had a brief moment of sadness when he thought of Steve, of never getting to see his baby blue eyes again, but another glance at the arm only filled him with anguish again.

Looking around him frantically, Bucky found some shards of glass near the exterior wall, perhaps from a previous window that had been broken. Picking it up, he examined it, heart pounding, seeing if the edge was sharp enough. Maybe if he sliced the arm off, and he wasn’t bleeding out fast enough, he could slit his own throat. God knew he’d done it enough times to find the most efficient way. He’d cut his own throat open, lie down, and just wait for it all to end. It seemed like a better choice than turning into one of the monsters he had seen today. Slowly he raised his arm up, trying to figure out the best angle at which to do this.

But… could he even die? The thought made Bucky pause, and he slowly put down the piece of glass. From what he had seen, this transformation- or whatever was happening to him- was also helping him, in some ways. His senses were stronger, he needed less sleep, he could go longer without food, and Bucky was pretty sure his reflexes were faster than before. He was becoming even closer to Steve’s level every day, thanks to these mysterious things being done to his body. So it would only go to say that he would heal faster too, and he knew, from unfortunate circumstances, how hard it was to put Steve down. So what if Bucky did all that, went through all that pain, and then _still_ didn’t manage to end this himself?

The notion of still being stuck like this, but now with more scars or mutilations, possibly completely one-armed, made the breath catch in Bucky’s throat. He coughed, trying to clear it, and something one of the monsters had said earlier drifted back into his mind: “Try though you may, you cannot escape this path, not even by blood or bone.” It had sounded ominous before, yet now Bucky could only look at it one way: this wouldn’t work. If he tried to kill himself it wouldn’t work, or if he did it he would just be brought back to life. Bucky couldn’t avoid this “payment”, whatever it was, no matter what he did.

Chucking the shard of glass against the ground and letting out a strangled shout, Bucky fell to the floor again, burying his face in his knees. _Fuck_ , he really couldn’t catch a break, could he. Not only did he not really want to die, as he had already been through and survived so much, but apparently he couldn’t even make that choice for himself. Some stupid _witch_ and come for him and offered that deal, which made him even stupider than her for accepting. His limbs trembled as he tried to find his metaphorical footing again, though it was all of the night and most of the day before he could find the energy to stand up or eat.

After he’d slunk down to the store for his customary cheap (he only had had so much money on his person when he ran from Steve) meal late that afternoon, Bucky returned immediately to his room, shudders occasionally wracking his body even though it wasn’t that cold out. He could tell that he was regressing back to the state he had been in while in Bucharest, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. All he wanted to do was sleep, some childish part of him still hoping this was a bad dream that he could wake up from, and try to remember, to glean anything good from his past at all. It was slow going, and not very successful, so the evening was passed staring blankly at the wall, ignoring the slight reddish hue cast in his left peripheral field of vision.

Now, Bucky’s eye sight had always been good even before being experimented on- he never would have been made a sergeant and become a world-class sniper without it being so. Then, as the Winter Solider it had been enhanced to a level to compete with Hawkeye himself, and even Steve. _Plus_ there were the improvements that he had been noticing ever since these strange transformations started. All of that meant that when he woke up the next morning- about six days out from running away- to blurry and painful eyes, Bucky was more than a little worried.

Stumbling up from where he had been curled up in slumber, he rubbed forcefully at his eyes, frowning and cursing when it didn’t make a difference. Bucky blinked rapidly, pure panic twisting its way through his chest. If he couldn’t _see_ \- it was one of the most important defenses- how could he ever- it wouldn’t take long for someone to- He closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to just see “blurry”, reaching out blindly until he felt the wall and slid down it, head on his knees, shoulders trembling. Bucky tried to breathe, tried to will himself not to break down, but it was difficult when his most important sense was being taken away.

The problems lasted most of the day, the pain coming and going, the blurriness never truly leaving. It was too dangerous to go anywhere where he couldn’t easily defend himself, so Bucky didn’t move from his spot, instead only moving to eat some food out of necessity. He spent the time fluctuating between panic and despair, praying that this would soon and, yet again, hoping that this could be the thing that finally killed him. By the time the sun had set, his eyes felt less like someone was rubbing sandpaper on them, and he raised his head, blinking heavily. Things swam and shook in his vision, but his visual field seemed almost back to normal, nothing blurrier than to be expected at night after having your eyes closed for most of the day.

Bucky immediately felt around his eyes, probing the socket and his lids to see if anything had changed, knowing that pain meant some new, awful thing had happened. He couldn’t feel anything, no scales or new horns or weird jewels. Taking a deep breath, he stood up, wavering only a tiny bit, and made his way out into the hallway to try and find something marginally reflective. Luckily, a few rooms down the hall, a mirror had been placed on the floor to be installed on the wall. Crouching down and taking another deep breath, he took a moment to steel himself, keeping his eyes on his shoes. After what felt like centuries, he slowly raised his eyes until he could look into the mirror.

Before he could stop it, a whimper burst out of him, and his right hand came up to his mouth. His eyes… where before they had been a dark gray-blue, sharp and bright, now they shone a bright, unnatural gold, the same color as the bands on the arm. Bucky’s breath was now coming out sounding closer to sobs, as he used his flesh hands to pull away his eye lids, searching for some trick or fluke. But his irises didn’t change with new angles or light, just glittered back at him, stranger’s eyes in his familiar face. Steve had once said, in passing, that he had recognized Bucky’s eyes first, the particular shade of stormy blue making itself immediately. But now it was gone.

He could see in the mirror that his eyes were filling with tears, and Bucky didn’t know exactly why this change was the breaking point. He had weathered it all until now, pushed through the pain and mostly ignored the physical modifications. But to see his eyes, which were about the only things in his body that had never been changed, become strange to him was more than he could take. He let the tears fall, hand going back to cover his mouth and muffle the hitching sobs coming from it. Feeling like he deserved a little selfish time, he sat on his ass and cried.

Bucky hadn’t looked in mirrors too much in the Tower; he tended to avoid the reminders of what he was becoming. But now, all was visible to him in this dusty place- the dark gray horns whose color matched the thorny spikes on the arm, the golden bands clinking and shining innocently, the blazing red star casting a hellish glow over everything…. It was all too much. Struggling to get his breathing back under control, random hiccups still taking over his diaphragm, Bucky stared at the slightly luminous, alien eyes in the mirror, now red around the edges with tears.

It was about more than just his eye color. This was just another way that his autonomy was being taken away, his choice in the matter nonexistent. He had gone through this again and again; would there ever be a time when he would be free to do as he liked? Would there ever be a time when he could just _live_ , simply exist and be at peace? Tears continued to streak down his face, burning hot on his skin. His head had started to ache, and he let out a watery groan- the last thing he needed right now was more memories. He doubted that they would be good ones.

As the flood of memories came, he was unhappily proven right. Zola’s table, falling off of the train, cages and cells, beatings and injections and electrocutions, the Chair- everything he had gone through to become the Winter Soldier, laid out in front of him. Bucky’s stomach roiled, and he leaned over, putting his forehead to the cool concrete floor. God, they had beaten and tortured him for _years_ , slowly stripping away everything that he had, everything that he was. Gone was the carefree boy from Brooklyn who was in love with his best friend, gone was the scarred soldier who clung to his friend with all that he had left. All that was left was a blank canvas, ready to be made into a murderer.

And he had… he had fought back? The memories made Bucky’s breath catch in his throat- he had fought and spit and cursed at the soldiers who guarded him, held on to every scrap of info he could even through the Chair and the injections that made his mind go hazy. He repeated his name, his serial number, and Steve’s name until the end, when everything else was gone. He had been defiant, and stubborn, until there hadn’t been enough of Bucky Barnes left to do so.

More tears gathered in Bucky’s eyes, but for a different reason. Ever since he had left Hydra, Bucky had blamed himself completely, seen nothing but a machine hell-bent on destruction. He still saw that, in a way. But this was the first time that he saw the other side of it: he hadn’t _wanted_ this. He had tried and tried to get away, tried to get messages out to Steve, and when he was informed that Steve was dead, he tried all the harder to get out and prove them wrong. Bucky had _tried_ , he had fought and stuck it out. It hadn’t been him, he had been Hydra who made him this way.

The knowledge of his captivity shook him, lightening the load on his shoulders but deepening the pit inside of him. It was better, in a way, to know how hard he had fought to keep himself and his autonomy. On the other hand it was awful to remember what had been done to him, what he had gone through. But… maybe this wasn’t all his fault. He had been scraped out of his body like so much rotten food, and thrown away for decades. Maybe, with enough time, he could find it in himself to forgive himself, to move on. But not now, not when the wound of yet another thing taken from him was so fresh.

It was difficult, to make a decision. He had already decided that he probably couldn’t kill himself, for so many reasons, so it looked like he was stuck here. But… Bucky didn’t want to be alone. Not anymore. Not when a stranger looked back at him in the mirror, and everything he thought he knew was slipping away. He wanted safety, he wanted information, he wanted comfort, he wanted…. He wanted Steve.


	4. Chapter 4

[Artwork](https://quarra.tumblr.com/post/161394361989/heres-the-first-of-my-arts-for-the-cap-rbb-the)

* * *

 

When Bucky came back to the tower this time, he instead scaled the building, not wanting to have to explain to anyone in the lobby why he had horns and fucking golden eyes. He also hoped that JARVIS wouldn’t simply blast him off of the roof, and would maybe alert Steve instead of the others, so that Bucky had a chance of getting inside the building alive. His worries proved unfounded, however, as he made it to Steve’s floor without issue. Climbing onto the balcony, he knocked on the window, eyes on the ground as he shifted his weight. He wouldn’t even be surprised if Steve slammed the door shut on him, after what he did.

Within fifteen seconds the doors opened, and Bucky was looking down at Steve’s bare feet sticking out the bottom of his faded jeans. There was stony silence that extended for a couple of minutes, and though he didn’t look up at him, Bucky was sure that Steve was wearing his Disapproving Face. Finally Steve stepped aside, and Bucky slipped inside, careful not to brush against the blonde. The silence continued as Steve closed and locked the balcony doors, Bucky drifting towards the center of the room, which hadn’t changed in the week he’d been gone.

“Well?” Steve asked, breaking the silence, and Bucky couldn’t help but hunch his shoulders defensively. “Why’d you do it?” His voice was blank and firm, and it rattled Bucky not to be able to read his emotions.

So instead, he just babbled, nerves getting the best of him. “I- I’m sorry, Steve. I’m so sorry. I was… angry, all the time, at the littlest things. I thought I could handle it, but I couldn’t, and I’m so sorry I hurt you, I promised I never would and then I _hit_ you, and I-”

Strong hands gripped his shoulders, and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, unsure of what to expect. Steve quickly released him, seeing that reaction, but stayed close by. “No, you moron. Why’d you leave?”

Gaze darting quickly up to Steve and back down to the floor, Bucky shrugged. “I… I hurt you. I was scared of doing it again.” Bucky didn’t deserve to be around Steve. Steve was too good. The wound already seemed to have healed, but it didn’t make it any better that it had been there in the first place.

Steve sighed, and Bucky could hear him fold his arms in front of his chest. “Damnit, Bucky. Don’t do that again, don’t run away. I don’t _care_ that you lashed out while you were angry and afraid. We all do it sometimes. Hell, I still break most punching bags I use.” He paused, as if waiting for a sign from Bucky. “Besides, I can take it. I’m already better than before.”

Bucky remained silent, his eyes on his worn out combat boots, and Steve huffed again. “I’m _serious_ , Buck. Don’t fuckin’ do that again. Stay here, where you’re close. I need to know that you’re alright. Okay?” Even though he couldn’t truly promise anything, Bucky nodded hesitantly, and Steve let out an exhale. “Okay. Now, what do you need? You look… rough.”

Biting his lip, Bucky replied softly, ““Um… some food would be nice. And a hot shower?” Steve chuckled tiredly, obviously remembering their conversation after Bucky had fainted when he first came here. It was true, though- Bucky had been eating convenience store sandwiches for a week, and hadn’t showered in that long either. No wonder he looked bad. 

“Sure thing, Buck. You know where the shower is, I’ll start some food.” With that Steve walked into the kitchen, and Bucky drifted off to the bathroom, his mind feeling oddly disjointed. Everything that had happened since his eyes changed was a blur, and honestly all he wanted right now was to go to sleep, preferably in Steve’s arms. But he _couldn’t_ , he immediately snapped at himself, because he was dangerous and a freak, and Steve shouldn’t be saddled with him.

By the time Bucky got to the bathroom and the door clicked shut behind him, he was shaking again, and he could barely undo the zipper on his jeans. Everything was too cold and too distant, nothing felt real. When he stepped out of his clothes and looked in the mirror, making eye contact for only the second time with the new golden irises, something deep in Bucky tore again, and he stumbled backwards, breathing becoming erratic again as panic swelled in his chest. He must have fallen against the wall too hard, or knocked something down, because within seconds Steve was knocking at the door, calling his name. Presumably due to the lack of response, Steve opened the door quickly, eyes jumping around as he catalogued the situation. One eyebrow raised as he saw that Bucky was naked, Steve asked, “Is… everything okay?”

Bucky hadn’t stopped shaking, and he wrapped his right arm tightly around his waist in a useless effort to keep himself together, using his hand to hold his left arm as close to his body and immobile as possible. Biting his lip, he met Steve’s eyes for the first time since coming back, barely hearing the blonde’s sharp intake of breath. “It… my eyes, Stevie. My eyes aren’t blue anymore. I don’t… I don’t even _look_ like-” He had to stop to inhale, chest tight and achy, tears burning once again behind his eyes. An embarrassing whimper escaped him, and he couldn’t help but look back up at Steve, silently begging.

“Buck…” Steve’s voice was soft, and he held out his arms, into which Bucky fell gratefully. He radiated warmth, and Bucky huddled against his chest, trying to stifle the choked sobs trying to escape him. Bucky still didn’t have words for it, what it was like to see a stranger in the mirror _again_ , what is was like to have something that had always been yours- even through seventy years of torture and dehumanization- be ripped away from you. So instead he curled against Steve, relishing the smell and heat that came off of him, just trying to breath. He didn’t even realize Steve was talking until a couple minutes in.

“-okay, Buck, I promise. We’ll figure this thing out, and we’ll be okay. I know this hurts, but it don’t matter to me what eye color you have, okay? I’m sorry you’re hurtin’, but just know that I’ll still love you, no matter what.” Steve was murmuring niceties to Bucky, and even if he couldn’t bring himself to believe them, the cadence of Steve’s voice still managed to calm Bucky down enough to stop shaking. After another moment he pulled away, tucking hair behind his ear in embarrassment, noticing he was still completely naked.

 Voice rough, Bucky mumbled, “Um…thanks, for that. Uh. Sorry.”

Tucking hair from the other side behind his ear, Steve smiled gently. “Not a problem at all. Now take your shower, come eat the boxed food I _slaved_ over, and then we’ll go down and ask Tony and Bruce for some help, ‘kay?” Bucky nodded, and Steve left, quietly closing the door behind him. Exhaling slowly, Bucky scrubbed at his face, maybe a little harder than necessary, and did what Steve told him.

After a shower and some food, Bucky felt steadier on his feet, but now anxiety about interacting with other people in the tower crept in. Bucky hadn’t talked to anyone except Steve since he’d been here, and the fact that they were going to the labs didn’t help his nervousness at all. He stuck close to Steve’s side on the way down, and almost turned back a dozen times. By the time they reached the door Bucky had snagged a hold onto Steve’s shirt, earning a soft grin from Steve, to force him to follow the blonde.

The first impression Bucky had of the lab was loud, both auditory and visually. Rock music blared from hidden speakers, machines sparked and whirred everywhere, robots zoomed around on the floor, and holograms danced in the air above tables. It was the same vibe that Bucky got off of Stark himself- barely organized chaos, bursting at the seams with frenetic energy. It startled Bucky more than he’d liked to admit, and it was a relief to meet the much calmer Banner, who shook his hand and gave a proper introduction, instead of immediately trying to poke around his body, _Stark_.

Of course, his new found calm in Banner only lasted until he told Bucky that they had to get some blood samples from him, if he didn’t mind. Bucky nodded, but he could feel every muscle in his body tense up at the mere thought of needles and antiseptic smells. Stark, as if he could see how twitchy Bucky was getting, called over from his work table, “We’ll do it right in here, no fancy doctor’s chairs, or anything.” Steve looked to Bucky for an answer, and Bucky set his jaw and nodded in return.

He sat in the proffered chair and held out his right arm, twitchy and skittish beyond belief. He couldn’t help but superimpose Zola, Pierce, Hydra techs, hell, even the mean army nurses in Banner’s place, and it took all that Bucky had not to bolt. It helped that Stark’s lab looked more like a junkyard than any lab Bucky had ever been forced into, but the bright lights and the needles made Bucky shove his face into Steve’s torso as hard as he could, the scent and heat of Steve calming him enough to stay seated. Once Banner had taken all the blood and tissue samples he needed, Bucky practically leapt out of the chair, ignoring Stark’s complaints about wanting to see the arm, bidding the two a hasty goodbye as he hurried back to their floor with Steve trailing after him.

It took a long two days to recover all of the data they could, and though the two scientists worked tirelessly day and night, Bucky was still an anxious wreck the whole time. This could finally be the answer he’d been looking for, a name to what was happening to him. He wasn’t dumb enough to think that Banner and Stark could come up with a cure or a reversal, but it didn’t stop a little ember of hope from starting up in his chest. Bucky told himself he was being an idiot, but between his own wishful delusions and Steve’s constant optimism, it was difficult to keep from getting his hopes up.

Of course, his anxiety wasn’t helped by the fact that in the morning of the second day of his return, Bucky felt sharp pains in each tooth, like they were each being wrenched out from the roots. Cold static shot from each tooth to his gums, giving him a headache and a jaw ache. Steve was incredibly concerned, but Bucky kept waving him off, telling Steve that he would get him if it got any worse. Mostly, Bucky just wanted to be alone to freak out about whatever new horror was about to hit him. Within a few hours it was mostly complete, the pain receding as suddenly as it had arrived. But Bucky didn’t need to use a mirror to tell that his teeth had all sharpened to slight points, like every tooth had been replaced by a canine. He could feel the sharpened edges on his tongue, and the way they clicked together.

When he emerged from his bedroom he went straight to Steve on the couch, opening his mouth morosely and pointing. Steve opened and shut his for a moment and said, “Holy shit,” before simply opening his arms in an invitation. Bucky sagged with relief before quickly making his way over, taking the chance to be selfish with Steve’s affections. He settled down against Steve’s side, leaning into him, relishing in the warmth flowing into his perpetually too-cold body. After all this, even veritable fangs couldn’t scare Steve away. What did Bucky ever do to deserve this?

Evidently he must have spoken some part of that out loud, because Steve snorted softly, saying, “You looked after me my whole life, now I just get to return the favor.” Bucky snorted, wanting to say how this wasn’t nearly the same, and how none of it had been Steve’s fault to begin with. But then Steve started stroking Bucky’s hair, carefully avoiding the horns, which caused Bucky to turn into a boneless heap on the cushion. He even managed to doze for a while, Steve never even shifting.

Finally, almost a full 48 hours after they had first gone down there, Steve and Bucky were summoned down to the labs. Extricating themselves off the couch they went off to the labs, anxiety radiating off of both of them. When they entered, Stark and Banner were standing in the middle of the room, staring at the screens before them, completely silent. Bucky shifted in place, nervous beyond words at what they might find. He couldn’t read any of the data, diagrams, or charts up there, but Stark looked miffed, while Banner looked resigned. Their body language just screamed “defeated”, and Bucky could already feel himself, deflating, shoulders hunching in on themselves. Steve reached out and squeezed his right shoulder, which sent a tendril of warmth through his skin but did nothing to ease his tension.

“So….” Stark said, clapping his hands. “Short answer is, we don’t know for sure.” 

Bucky flinched, looking down at the ground, and Steve’s grip tightened on his shoulder.

Banner elaborated. “Your blood overall isn’t that different, containing all the normal elements, plus some we believe to be your version of the serum.” Bucky nodded, chewing on his lip, sensing the coming ‘but’; Banner didn’t disappoint. “But, there are a few strange things we can see. He pointed to a diagram that was nonsensical to Bucky.

Here, Stark cut in again. “Now, we don’t know exactly what these elements are, or what they do. Buuuuut,” he said, waving a finger in the air, “we know of some things that look similar.” Making a few complicated hand gestures, all but one diagram fell away, and another one appeared beside the original. Both screens looked very similar with many parts and shapes looking exactly the same, but Bucky still wasn’t sure what he was looking at. “This on the left is a picture of the lab work of your blood samples,” Tony explained, “and this on the right is a picture of the lab work of some blood samples Thor brought us.”

Thor… the alien demigod? Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, asking, “Why did Thor have to bring them to you? What are they?” He could feel Steve stiffen beside him, and feeling the increased tension skyrocketed Bucky’s rising anxiety.

Stark and Banner met eyes, Stark shrugging and Banner rolling his eyes. Stark turned back to Bucky, saying, “He said they were from creatures of Muspelheim, which were closest to what we would call demons.” His tone was careless as if it was a daily occurrence.

Bucky blinked at Stark, who still looked slightly bored, and at Banner, who looked like he was sorry. Steve beat him to the punch, however, asking, “I’m sorry, did you just say _demons_?”

Sighing, Banner nodded, taking off his glasses to clean them. “Yes, the fire giants of Muspelheim closely resemble what might have started demon mythologies here on earth. The blood samples are not exactly the same, but many of the biggest parts are.” Banner cleared his throat, clearly getting into the explanation. “Going from Thor’s descriptions, I would assume that the… the things like the horns, the eyes, the spikes and gold bands on your arm… these are all things that would result from your DNA being similar to the sample from Muspelheim.”

Mind stuck on the word ‘demon’, Bucky barely heard Banner speak. He could hear himself breathing far too rapidly and harshly, and he was beginning to shake, but as Steve asked Stark and Banner further questions, none of them paid attention to Bucky. Fuck, was that was he really was? He had made a deal with a demon? Bucky wasn’t a very religious man, never had been, but if he had thought that he was going to hell before, well now it looked like he had earned himself a one way, express ticket.

One thing stood out from the chaos of Bucky’s mind, and that was that Steve was still touching him, Steve was still here near him, and that was… that was unacceptable. Bucky had always privately thought of Steve as his own, strange sort of angel, sent to him even though he didn’t deserve it. But if Bucky was a demon, the lowest of the low, then Steve couldn’t be around him, no one could. Bucky was soiled, ruined, and there was no way to fix him. He probably knew as much, deep down inside himself, but to hear it said out loud….

Ignoring the burning of the tears in his eyes, Bucky tore away from Steve’s grasp and bolted out of the lab, straight for the stairs. He vaguely heard Steve call his name, but Bucky didn’t stop as he pounded back up to Steve’s level. Once there he banged into the room he’d been staying in, hands reaching up to fist in his hair as the tears began to fall. Once they started he couldn’t stop them, and he was wracked with sobs, shuddering uncontrollably. Had he always been a demon, since that old woman’s deal? Had he been human for even less time than he had thought? Was that why Hydra had chosen him- he had some evil inside of him, always had, always will? Had he _ever_ been a good person?

Vaguely he heard the elevator ding, and Steve come down the hallway, still calling his name. Surely he could hear Bucky, with how loud his sobs and gasping inhales were. But Bucky didn’t respond, merely crawling into his bed and curling around himself in the center of it. He hoped Steve didn’t come in here, hoped that he realized Bucky was no good to be around and just asked him to leave. That was best for all.

But of course, Steve simply barged in anyway, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Bucky, I… I’m sorry. I know all this must be awful.” Giving a watery snort, Bucky turned his head away from the door, wrapping his arm around his legs, leaving the mangled one out to the side. Steve stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. “I mean it. I can’t imagine what this must be like. But you know that we all want to help you, right?”

“Why?” Bucky croaked, giving Steve a baleful glare. Steve might have some misplaced sense of loyalty or love for the boy he knew, but the others certainly had no reason to aid him, especially now.

Steve cocked his head. “Well… that’s what friends do. I’m not sure what exactly yet, Buck, but we’ll figure somethin’ out.” He looked so certain, nodding to himself, reaching a hand toward Bucky.

Sneering, Bucky snapped, “There ain’t no _we_. There ain’t nothing to _do_. You heard ‘em- they don’t have anything for me.”

“We just started, Buck, I mean-”

Bucky sat up straight, crying, “NO, Steve, _we’re_ not doing anything. I can’t… I can’t be here. I… I don’t deserve all this. I deserve to be alone.” He lost his nerve half way through, eyes falling back down to the bedsheets. He gripped them tightly, hiding his shaking fingers, hiding how much he didn’t want to go.

Steve’s voice was soothing now, as if Bucky was a wild animal. “It’s alright Bucky, you’ll be safe here. The others won’t hurt you or nothin’.”

Letting out an incredulous, teary laugh, Bucky shouted, “ _God_ , Steve, you’re so fuckin’ stupid sometimes, punk. I’m leavin’ because _you’re_ not save. Look at me!” Bucky held out both arms, just begging Steve to look at all the new, horrendous parts of him, things that marked him as inhuman.

At that Steve faltered, his face falling, saying, “Wait, no, Buck-”

Bucky was on a roll now, pulling on his hair, tears leaking down his face. “I’m apparently a literal _demon_ , Steve! With no cure! As if I wasn’t already a monster as the Soldier, someone had to go and make me into a literal one. I’m a fuckin’ freak! Horns and creepy eyes, as if a metal arm ain’t bad enough.” This wasn’t just about vanity, though Bucky admitted that had a part to play; Bucky was turning into a nightmare, and he was never even good enough for Steve in the first place.

Steve was frowning as hard as Bucky had ever seen him, which was saying something. “Bucky, I don’t-”

Steamrolling right over him, Bucky continued to rant, too afraid and too angry to listen to whatever Steve had to say. “I don’t even know why you let me stay here, Steve. If you were smart you’d’ve kicked me out a long time ago. I don’t belong here. You’re better than this, and I certainly don’t deserve this… don’t deserve you.” At that Bucky gave a little shudder, because while he believed it was true, it didn’t make it any easier to say.

Now Steve was clenching his jaw, the muscles in his neck straining. “You don’t get to-” But Bucky wasn’t done.

“Fuck, if I thought it would work, I’d kill myself right now!” Bucky said hysterically, and Steve flinched at that, harder than when Bucky had physically struck him. “I can’t make you live like this, I can’t drag you down with me. You’re too good for me, always have been and _especially_ now-”

Bucky was interrupted by Steve shouting, “Shut UP, Bucky!” Bucky was stunned into silence, tears stopped but body still trembling. “God, how many times do I have to tell you, Buck?” Steve all but yelled, making Bucky flinch. He was still huddled on his bed, feeling weak and useless, tears still drying on his cheeks. “It doesn’t _matter_ to me, none of it does! I’ll be by your side no matter what weird shit happens. We made a promise to each other a long time ago, and I don’t plan on going back on my word. Do you?” His jaw was clenched and his hands were fisted by his sides, but his eyes were glittering with tears, and Bucky could read the rigid tension in his shoulders.

Working his jaw, Bucky broke eye contact, wasn’t strong enough to hold it, looking down at the bed. It was difficult to do this, to speak and have a real conversation about it, but surely not as difficult as running away from Steve once more, or never seeing him again, or _hurting hi-_ “‘Course not, Stevie,” he mumbled, picking at a hole in the blanket caused by the claws on the metal arm, “I’m just so fucking scared. I hurt you without even trying. I don’t know what’s happenin’ to me or why, I don’t know what’ll come next, we don’t have any way to fix it, _fuck_ , I’m not even sure how much longer I’ll stay human.” Bucky snorted, then amended, “Human-ish.”

Steve softened his gaze, and Bucky saw him approach in his peripheral, taking soft and careful steps. “Buck, I get it, I do. I know a bit about what it’s like to suddenly not have control over your body, to feel like you don’t belong in it.” Steve held out a hand to silence Bucky’s angry retort. “I know it’s not quite the same; I had a choice, and you’ve had that happen to you so many times, for so many years… but I wanna be here for you. Please let me help.”

Sniffing, Bucky shook his head slightly, more out of exasperation than refusal. It wasn’t like he was deluded about why he’d returned to the Tower; he was tired of running, homesick and heartsick, and he just wanted to be back with Steve. He dropped his shoulders, closing his eyes. “Sure, pal, whatever floats your boat,” he replied quietly, but he then made sure to peek up and send Steve a small smile to let him know that he wasn’t angry anymore.

Bucky received a watery smile in return, and Steve dropped to the mattress next to him. Telegraphing his movements, Steve wrapped Bucky in a hug, the warmth of which sent shivers all the way through Bucky’s body. He wrapped his right arm as tightly as he could around Steve, inhaling his scent, which did more to calm him than any deep breathing he’d ever done. Touching Steve always seemed to make everything better, in every way. They sat that way for minutes or for hours, he wasn’t quite sure, leaving Bucky plenty of time to think after he’d calmed down. He thought about Steve, about their past and why this was happening, the severity of the deal that Bucky had made, all for Steve. All of this fear and pain and confusion, and yet… Bucky couldn’t find it in himself to regret any of it. If everything that had happened to him had led him here, then maybe he could learn, somehow, to deal with it all.

Maybe it was the calm dark of the night, the fact that he and Steve had already shared in such emotional outpourings already today, or that the way they were seated meant that Bucky didn’t have to meet Steve’s eyes- but Bucky started talking. “You know… I do kind of know why…. Why this is happening to me.” He could feel Steve tense up, but the blonde didn’t stop the slow sweep of his hand on Bucky’s spine. “In Bucharest, I got back a memory. We were 13, and you had pneumonia real bad- we all thought you were gonna die, for real that time. I ran through the city, tryn’a find someone to help. I found this old black woman, who promised to make you whole again, keep you safe an’ healthy an’ strong. She said I owed her a payment, but that it wouldn’t take place for a long time.” He paused, trying to remember the exact words. “She said, it wouldn’t show up, ‘not until you are grown and have found peace, in which case it will be taken from you, twisting you, until you find what you seek most.’ I, bein’ the dumbass I was, agreed without hesitation and ran back to you.”

Steve’s hand came up to the back of Bucky’s neck and squeezed it. “Oh, Buck,” he started in that sad tone of voice Bucky was getting all too used to. Bucky could just see the guilty, teary-eyed face Steve was wearing, could feel the inwardly-directed anger brewing. Bucky sighed, knowing that he would next have to get Steve to unload his problems too, which was nearly impossible. But that could come later.

“Shh. Let me finish,” Bucky responded, tapping his hand against Steve’s hip. He wasn’t sure he could keep his confidence going long enough to finish otherwise. Steve fell silent, tucking his face into Bucky’s hair. “Two days later, I remembered a day when we were teenagers that we spent building a snowman, until you got too cold and started sneezin’. Then, we sat by the fire, making up our own comic book stories, until you fell asleep, head in my lap, just like that.” Bucky swallowed, licked his lips, savored the heavy weight of Steve around him in case it was the last time. “I think that was the day I first realized I loved you, more’n just a friend should.”

Steve practically froze around him, and Bucky scrunched up his face, chewing on his lip. He needed to get this out, was tired of all the secrets and hiding. “I… I got more memories back that day, every time that I had looked at you and thought, god damn, I am one lucky son of a bitch. But I… I could never… I didn’t want to _ruin_ it….” His voice broke and trailed off into the oppressive silence, and Bucky’s heart rate picked up, anxiety rushing in to take the place of plain nervousness. “But… but that was then, ya know? So much has changed and I- look at me, I mean, right? So you don’t hafta- we can just forget I said anything and-”

His babbling was forcefully cut off as Steve pulled back and crashed his lips into Bucky’s. Though it took a second for his brain to come back online, Bucky quickly got with the program, being sure to be careful with his teeth as he kissed Steve back for all he was worth. Steve was the one to break off first, gasping, “I’ve wanted you since I knew what wantin’ was, Bucky, and ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.” This time Bucky crushed their lips together, warm tears prickling at his eyes. It felt like every ounce of pain he’d been through in the last seventy-odd years was worth it. It felt like fireworks on Steve’s birthday, like homemade presents at Christmas, like coming _home_. He wasn’t alone, not anymore.

They kissed and kissed, for close to an hour, before Steve finally took off Bucky’s shirt, careful of the left arm. More clothes followed after that, and if Bucky had thought the kissing was amazing, skin on skin contact was intoxicating. The night devolved from there, filled with nothing but gasps of each other’s names, moans of pleasure, and the rustling of bed sheets. It sometimes took careful maneuvering, keeping the left arm out of the way, and Bucky had to be careful with his sharper teeth.

But Steve seemed to have no qualms, even laying a kiss in the center of the glowing red star, bringing tears to Bucky’s eyes yet again. Steve kept murmuring apologies, apologies for scaring Bucky into leaving, apologies for making Bucky trade his humanity for his, apologies for not finding him and rescuing him from Hydra sooner. He whispered gratitude, grateful that Bucky was here and alive, grateful for his health that Bucky had insured, grateful that they finally had this chance. It was the best night of Bucky’s life, and if he had to grow some freaky appendages to earn it, at that very moment, he couldn’t really care less. It was hours later when they finally separated, sweaty and satiated, falling on top of one another to fall into the most restful sleep either of them had known in years.

Bucky wasn’t sure what woke him up a few hours later. He spent the first moments just basking in the warmth surrounding him, Steve plastered to his back with an arm and a leg thrown over him. Blinking his eyes against the film of sleep, Bucky looked around the room and strained his ears, but he didn’t hear or see anything amiss. Fully prepared to slip back into sleep, heart fuller than it had ever been, Bucky heard a voice say quietly, “James.” Bucky’s eyes flew back open, and sitting in a chair in the corner, which had previously been completely empty, was the old black woman from his memory, green shawl and everything. His throat clicked as he swallowed, and he turned his head to look at Steve, who was dead asleep. “Oh, don’t worry, he won’t wake up during our little chat,” the woman said with a smile.

Blinking quickly, hoping to dispel a hallucination, Bucky cleared his throat and worked up a glare when it didn’t work. “What the hell do you want?” he hissed. She had ruined his life, changed him into a monster, made him into a nightmare. Even if it was for Steve, it wasn’t something he would take lightly- there were thousands of other things she could have named as her price! The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

She didn’t bat an eye. “Well, I came to see how my payment was coming along. And it looks like our deal worked out quite well for the both of us,” she added, giving a knowing look to Steve clinging to Bucky like an octopus.

Normally Bucky would blush, but instead he just glared harder at her, ignoring the fact that everything on that end had worked out well for him after all. “How the fuck does mutating me benefit you?” he asked instead.

Shrugging, the old woman replied, “That is not your business. However, I thought you would want to know that my payment is complete. No more of you shall change, now that you have found what you seek most.”

Bucky blinked at her yet again, struggling to comprehend. “So… I won’t change anymore? It’s done?” The woman nodded with a sly grin. “Now that I found… _oh_.” Now Bucky blushed, looking down to where Steve had grabbed his right hand with his own. The woman just laughed, leaning back in her chair, bangles clinking together. Biting his lips to contain a grin, Bucky couldn’t help but entwine his legs a bit more with Steve’s. Steve, who was the cure, after all this time.

A sudden thought made Bucky lose his grin and snap his gaze back up to the woman. “But… will I go back to normal? Will this stuff come off?” he asked tentatively.

The woman peered at him, pursed her lips, and then shook her head. “No, because that was not in our deal. I told you that you would change until you found it, not that you would go back.”

A wave of despair crashed through Bucky’s chest, but he nodded; she was right. That’s what he gets for not looking at the fine print. “I understand,” he whispered, head falling back down to the pillow. “Anything else you wanna tell me?” At this point his exhaustion and resignation had overtaken his anger, and he just wanted to go back to cuddling with Steve, deal with this all in the morning.

Once again smiling in an unreadable way, she shook her head. “Sleep well, James Barnes, and live your life the way it should have been.” With that, she was gone between one blink and the next, leaving Bucky to stare blankly into the corner.

Heaving a sigh, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut against the tickle of tears, reminding himself that it wasn’t all that bad. Just because he had a god awful beast of an arm, and strange horns on his forehead, and creepy golden eyes…. His breath gave a little hitch as all of his earlier upset came back, mourning the fact that he was like this now, that he was even farther away from _good_ than before. God, how could Steve ever accept him li-

Steve squeezed Bucky’s waist where his arm laid, placing a sleepy kiss on the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky’s thoughts were thoroughly scattered as a warm buzz went down his spine, causing the tension to melt out of his limbs. “Mmmm… stop thinkin’ so loud, you woke me up,” Steve mumbled, tucking his head back into Bucky’s hair.

Bucky sniffed, squeezing Steve’s hand that was in his. “Stevie… you still love me, right? Even when…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, hating how childish he sounded, hated that he was needy and uncertain in this. But even though Steve had been professing his love not even four hours ago… Bucky needed to know. Because even though Bucky couldn’t love himself, if Steve did, then maybe there was some hope for him.

Humming and lightly dragging his lips across Bucky’s neck, Steve replied, hazy with sleep, “To th’ end of the earth an’ back. Have for seventy years, jerk, it’ll take more’n some weird appendages t’ scare me off. Enda th’ line….” Within seconds Steve was drifting back to sleep, leaving Bucky to choke on his emotions, a wobbly smile on his face as he turned around and spread himself across Steve’s front.

Maybe it all _wasn’t_ so bad. As long as Steve was there, he would never be alone again, and he could finally once again learn to be the human named Bucky.

 


End file.
